Mission of Murder, page 16
Nico had walked away from the harbour, cutting across the wide main road that ran south to parallel the Akti Apollon coastline and heading up a narrow side street. A few minutes later he turned into an even narrower street where the unpaved surface was of dusty, hard-packed earth. On either side ran a row of unattractive houses with the faded yellow whitewash flaking from their plastered walls.
The time was mid-afternoon and there was no one about, for at this hour the inhabitants preferred to doze in the shade to escape the uncomfortable heat. Nico was no exception, and his only thoughts were of sleeping away the sluggish hours until the tavernas became lively again in the evening. He climbed the three concrete steps to the doorway of the building where he occupied a single, filthy room and let himself into the small hallway. The hallway was dark and dingy and quite empty, and the house was silent and breathed no sign of life.
Nico had been taken completely by surprise by what happened next, and all that he ever saw of his attacker was the slim hand that abruptly appeared under his nose and closed over his mouth. The hand looked almost smooth and elegant enough to belong to a woman, but there was a supple strength there that made it impossible for him to cry out, and that and the powerful grip that had forced his right arm up between his shoulder blades had held him as helpless as a child.
Nico had been thrust deeper into the dingy hallway and heard the door kicked into place behind him. His arm was twisted ruthlessly to near breaking point, and the fierce pain combined with the even finer agony of blind unreasoning fear made him willing to talk even before the soft, demanding voice began to murmur by his ear.
Cleyton had assessed the youth’s moral character well, and in less than two minutes he knew that what he had feared was fact; Simon Larren had been marked down for death. Seconds later Nico had been skilfully silenced with a sharp palm blow and was left unconscious in a corner of the hallway as Cleyton hurried back to Tourkolimano.
To his dismay he found that Christos’s launch had already sailed and for a moment he was in a quandary. Then had spotted a patrolling policeman idly pacing his beat, and he had realized that his only hope of saving Larren’s life now was to enlist the resources of the Athens police. However, he could hardly tell them the truth and for a moment he was at a loss to create a story strong enough to send them in pursuit of the launch. Then he remembered the picture that had been in all the Greek papers that morning, and on impulse he decided to use the name of the wanted Thessaloniki bank bandit.
Later he had deliberately left his hotel and made himself scarce, knowing that in the face of his disappearance and the complete lack of any real evidence Kravakos would eventually be forced to release Larren from jail.
Now Cleyton relaxed in the darkness at Piraeus and felt calmly pleased with himself as he waited for Savino to return from his nocturnal visit aboard the Xenia.
He had a long while to wait, but Cleyton was a patient man. Savino had vanished into the small wheelhouse and had presumably descended to the tiny cabin below, and when he finally reappeared again there was a second man with him. They stood on deck for a moment and shook hands, and then Savino climbed back on to the quay and began to stride briskly away along the dockside. Cleyton watched him go and then turned his attention to the second man who still remained aboard the fishing boat.
He was a short but lusty-looking man who would probably be somewhere in his forties, dressed in rough, work-stained trousers and an old blue jersey. Like most Greeks he favoured a small moustache, and he was bare-headed. He watched Savino leave, then he abruptly glanced down at something in his hand, smiled, and then pulled himself nimbly on to the quay and moved off in the opposite direction.
Cleyton reasoned that the man must be the captain of the Xenia, and he had a deep suspicion that the something in his hand had been a roll of notes. He hesitated a moment, and then decided that he could always pick up Savino’s trail later. Right now he wanted to find out what the young Greek had wanted from the captain of the fishing boat.
Without any further delay he began to follow the second man through the docks.
The Xenia’s captain led him away from the quayside and eventually turned into a small, somewhat unsavoury little taverna. Here, just inside the open door, was a large glass showcase containing eggs, tomatoes, oddments of thick sliced sausage, plates of half-cooked fish and several large crabs and lobsters. Behind the showcase pans of fried potatoes and reeking cabbage simmered on a cramped cooking range, and the whole place smelled of cooking oil. The stocky fisherman studied the showcase for a moment and then pointed out the plate of fish he fancied and gestured towards the pans. Then, while his meal was being prepared, he ordered a glass of wine from the bar at the back end of the taverna and sat down to wait.
Cleyton watched him through the open door from a discreet distance, frowning thoughtfully and then abruptly making up his mind. He strolled casually into the taverna with a half-simple grin on his face, nodded amiably at the sour-faced man who was preparing the food, and at the same time neatly allowed his right hip to collide solidly with the table where the fishing captain sat. The single glass of pale yellow retsina wine rocked jerkily and tipped over to roll tinkling to the floor. The stocky man lurched to his feet and swore angrily.
Cleyton’s grin vanished and he stammered with embarrassment as he sought to placate the man by buying more wine. At one early stage of his career he had trained as an actor and this was not the first time that that training had come in useful in his present trade. By holding his breath as his hands moved ineffectually to dab up the spilled wine, he even managed to colour his face a convincing red as the blood flushed his cheeks, and by the time the wineglass had been re-filled he had the simple fisherman feeling almost sorry for him.
When everything had settled he sat down at the table and began to apologize yet again, for another of his talents lay in the fact that he had a flair for languages, and among six others, one of which included perfect Russian, he spoke fluent modern Greek. The fishing captain had now given way to amusement at his worried insistence and waved the words aside.
Cleyton allowed himself to relax and adopted the manner of one who having invited a conversation was not quite sure how to go about it. He introduced himself under the name of Hector and described himself as steward from one of the larger ferries that cruised between Greece and Italy, a description that fitted his smooth hands and tidy appearance as well as explaining his presence in this less refined area of the docks. The Xenia’s captain gave his name as Panapopolis.
The meal arrived that Panapopolis had ordered and he hungrily began to eat, his new companion insisted on refilling his wine glass again and under the mellowing influence of the bitter retsina he began to feel content. He warmed slowly towards this uncertain but friendly Hector who, now that they were talking on friendly terms, was wistfully revealing a secret desire to go to sea as something more worthwhile than a waiter on a floating restaurant. Panapopolis began to tell deliberately tall tales about fishing and the sea, talking with his mouth full and colouring his words with grand gestures of his hands. He was in a good humour now and quite suddenly he decided that this eager young steward was actually envious, a fact that tickled his vanity and made him more amiable still.
The wine continued to flow in pace with Panapopolis’s contented conversation, and when the eager Hector tentatively asked if he could accompany him on a fishing trip one night the Xenia’s captain was almost inclined to agree. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said apologetically, “If I were fishing tonight I would take you out, my friend. But tonight I have already hired out my boat to a man named Savino who wants me to take himself and some friends out to sea, so I cannot take you along.”
Hector’s face saddened. “But you will still need a crew,” he said hopefully.
Panapopolis shook his head. “No, this is not to be a fishing trip. What its purpose is I do not know, but Mr. Savino insists that I must bring no crew but myself, and that if I need any help one of his men will assist me.” He grinned widely. “This I do not mind, for Mr. Savino pays well and I shall not have to share out the money.”
Hector’s eyes widened with excitement. “It sounds very mysterious,” he whispered.
Panapopolis was amused by the conspiratorial tone, and his natural vanity coupled with the wine he had drunk induced him to enlarge upon the subject. “As you say, my friend, it is mysterious. This Mr. Savino and his friends will board my boat in less than an hour, and then I must take them out to sea where we will rendezvous with a motor launch which I must follow — and I do not know where it is going.”
“Is this not dangerous?” asked Hector in a worried tone. “Or perhaps you know this Savino well?”
“No, I have never met him before tonight. But the pay is high so the risk I am prepared to take. There is no reason why any harm should befall me.”
From there the conversation flowed into less exciting channels, and they sipped another slow glass of retsina wine before Panapopolis realized that it was time he hurried back to his boat to make the last-minute preparations for putting to sea. He shook hands with the friendly Hector and they wished each other luck before he left. As he walked away from the taverna Panapopolis was thinking that the ship’s steward was quite a pleasant young fellow, despite his clumsiness and his unquestioning gullibility.
Five minutes later as he passed through a particularly dark and lonely section of the docks Panapopolis heard a slight sound behind him. He hesitated a second, and then decided that it must be a rat and carried on. Almost simultaneously something exploded just behind his left ear and he toppled unconscious to the ground.
The man with the ballet dancer figure looked down at him and felt a strong sense of distaste at his own actions as he massaged the cutting edge of his right palm, and then he swiftly set to work to secure the fishing captain’s wrists and ankles with a set of cords from his pocket. Afterwards he added an effective gag and almost tenderly dragged the unfortunate Panapopolis into a concealed corner formed by some packing cases standing against a warehouse wall.
The façade of the insipid Hector had vanished now, and it was Adrian Cleyton who walked out of the shadows and headed swiftly towards the Xenia.
It was after midnight when Savino returned to the dockside, and his face expressed complete satisfaction when he found that the Xenia’s diesel engine was already throbbing softly and that the boat only needed to cast off her moorings to put to sea. He jumped down on to the fishing boat’s deck and one by one a small force of five men followed him. They gathered into a group, glancing warily around them and wrinkling their noses at the reek of fish. Savino took a pace forward and called to Panapopolis by name.
And Adrian Cleyton stepped calmly out of the tiny wheelhouse.
Savino’s face flinched with alarm and his hand flickered towards his coat pocket. Then he checked the movement as he realized that while the stranger was alone he had five men at his back.
He rasped harshly, “Who are you? Where is the boat’s captain?”
Cleyton shrugged expressively and gave an apologetic smile. “You must be Mr. Savino,” he observed. “I have a misfortune to explain to you, sir. When you employed my brother to take you to sea tonight you made one big mistake — you paid him in advance. He goes straight to the taverna and now he is very drunk.”
Savino’s face was no longer handsome as he said suspiciously, “Are you trying to tell me that Panapopolis is drunk — in little more than an hour.”
Savino’s companions had closed around Cleyton in an ugly circle, but the slim man did not appear to notice and he continued to smile. “That is the sorry truth. Normally my brother drinks only retsina, nothing but retsina. But at the cinema he watches the stars in the American films drink whisky, and tonight, because he has big money, he must try this whisky. And he tries to drink the whisky the way he drinks the wine.”
Savino cursed angrily, silenced an interruption from one of his men, and then demanded, “And you say you are Panapopolis’s brother?”
Cleyton prayed that Panapopolis had been telling the truth when he had said that he and Savino had never met before and calmly nodded his head. He glanced down at his clothing, a reeking old sweater and a pair of patched trousers he had found in the Xenia’s cabin, and added, “I am Hector, and as you can see I am all ready to take my brother’s place.”
“But I have already paid Panapopolis!”
Cleyton nodded vigorously. “Exactly so. And I must carry out his obligations. It is a matter of honour.”
Savino hesitated, then decided abruptly. “All right, it’s too late for me to change my plans so you will have to do. Outside the harbour there will be a launch waiting to guide you, and all you have to do is to follow it. Now get moving.”
Cleyton beamed widely, thanked him, and then hurried to cast off the mooring ropes. Savino’s five men watched him work, and although nothing but cheerful simplicity registered on his face the slim man had already noticed that each man had a trouble-hardened look about him, and that four out of the five were inflicted with a heavy bulge in the right-hand coat pocket. The fifth man carried a medium-sized black suitcase.
Cleyton had never handled a forty-foot fishing boat before, but his trade had called for an extensive training programme that had covered a wide variety of skills, and he knew enough about sailing to clear the dock basin without mishap. And then, exactly as promised, a fast launch nosed out of the night sea to meet them.
Cleyton recognized the launch, and he knew that Christos and Dimitri were probably aboard. He had expected that, but still there was a single, horrible, stomach-gnawing moment when he thought that the launch was coming alongside and that one of the men who knew his face might be transferring to the Xenia. Then the launch sped past and Savino snapped at him to keep behind it. Two hours later a small island rose like a blunt, molar tooth from the black sea and Cleyton was told to cut off his engines and let the boat drift. In the same moment he heard the name Kyros murmured by one of the men on deck, and only then did he realize that he was looking at Angelo Valedri’s stronghold.
A hundred yards away Christos’s launch also drifted silently on the slight swell and Cleyton realized that they were waiting for something to happen, or for some kind of signal.
Nobody spoke, but after a few minutes the man with the suitcase opened it and took out the dismantled parts of a high-powered rifle which he idly began to fit together. Another man produced an automatic and carefully checked the ammunition clip.
Cleyton watched, and the calm way in which they continued to work in front of him made his spine turn cold. He suddenly knew why Savino had agreed to his taking Panapopolis’s place with a minimum of argument, for it was clear that something big was soon about to take place and quite obviously no talkative fishing captain was going to be left alive to tell about it.
CHAPTER 17: EVEN ODDS
Inside the darkened villa on Kyros Simon Larren slowly descended the wide staircase to the ground floor. In his right hand he held his tiny pencil torch and he directed it downwards to reconnoitre each step before he carefully lowered his foot. Over his left shoulder slumped the unconscious body of Angelo Valedri.
Larren’s palms were sweating again and his mouth was just a little bit dry as he moved through the silent building, but there was no sound and no stirring of life to disturb him. He felt that he had probably penetrated all of Valedri’s network of defences and that the man would not consider it necessary to post a guard inside the house, but he could not be absolutely sure. He knew that he had to be prepared for the totally unexpected and so he moved with the utmost caution.
He reached the spacious lounge and hesitated for a moment to let his ears strain into the stillness, then he crossed over to the smaller dining-room, paused again, and then moved stealthily into the kitchen. So far all the doors had been open, presumably to let the air circulate through the house, but the door that led down to the cellar was closed. Larren played his torch upon it for a moment and then transferred the torch to his teeth and gently tried the large doorknob. It turned with a slight creak that made him involuntarily grate his teeth upon the torch, and then the heavy door pulled open.
Larren stepped through on to the top step of the stone stairs that led down to the vault-like cellars and attentively closed the door behind him. He saw the large key protruding from the lock and his lips drew back from the metal of the torch in a slow, satisfied smile as the turned it to lock the door.
He moved more swiftly now, no longer afraid of being heard, taking the torch in his hand again and hurrying down into the cellar. Everything was exactly as he remembered it, and when he switched on the lights at the bottom of the stairs he saw once more the maze of red brick archways and the many racks of dusty wine bottles.
He dropped the torch into his pocket and drew out his automatic in its place before carrying the limp body deeper into the cellar. The desire to have the gun in his hand was mostly habit for he felt reasonably safe now, and he knew from bitter experience that the vaults were soundproof. He looked round for a suitable place to lower his burden and then saw a small pool of spilled red wine on the floor, and some grim sense of justice caused him to deposit Valedri there as he recognized the spot where he had undergone his own interrogation forty-eight hours before.
The ex-assassin for Murder Incorporated looked harmless and almost pathetic now, just a crumpled old man lying in his blue silk pyjamas on the cold flagstones. His temple was bruised and bloodied where Larren’s single blow had broken the skin and his face looked much older than the last time that Larren had seen it. His eyes and his mouth were closed and he was breathing sluggishly through the nose.
Larren’s mouth had resumed its normal, unsmiling hardness and his grey-green eyes were blank of all sympathy as he looked down at his prisoner. He was thinking of the red death; of the slow-creeping paralysis, of the ugly red rash on a child’s face, and of the ever-climbing total of corpses that the scourge left in its wake: and he knew that Angelo Valedri was still as coldly vicious and as utterly evil as he had been in his youth; more so, for he no longer murdered in ones or twos, but in scores and hundreds.
