Mission of Murder, page 5
Larren tried to look puzzled. “Carla didn’t tell me anything about this.”
The man from the Chevrolet shrugged his ox-like shoulders. “Carla doesn’t know. Her daddy doesn’t want to spoil her fun as long as she sticks to her regular boyfriends. But new boyfriends are definitely out.”
“But —”
Larren never finished as the man attacked him with sudden and unexpected ferocity. A crippling blow in the stomach slammed his back against the Renault and he gasped for air as the man held him there. Another rain of sickening blows smashed about his face and chest and then a pile-driver on the side of his neck sent him slithering across the Renault’s crumpled bonnet.
He hit the dry red earth and lay there choking. He heard Carla’s self-acclaimed bodyguard moving round the car towards him and knew that there was more coming. And he had to take it. If he wanted to allay the man’s suspicions and hope to stay near Carla, then he had to take it.
The man from the Chevrolet hauled him to his feet and propped him against the car again. He was grinning viciously and looked formidable and ugly in the shadowed light.
“Did that help to explain, friend?” he inquired. “Carla’s daddy just doesn’t want her messing around with strangers.”
Larren said weakly, “But I don’t know anything about his business. I don’t want to know. I —”
He was prepared this time and twisted away to avoid the full onslaught of the next attack. He covered himself well but still he took a pounding, fighting back only clumsily and resisting the burning urge to really retaliate. When he slumped back against the car again he was aching all over and there was blood running down above his eye and out of the corner of his mouth. He could feel the warm trickle moving softly down his face.
The man from the Chevrolet was panting hard. “I don’t want to have to kill you, friend,” he grated. “But I’m going to settle for the next best thing. After I’ve finished with you you won’t be able to interest Carla anyway.”
Larren sensed it coming and twisted desperately. The man had lashed out with his foot with the speed and skill of a professional soccer player and the driving impact of his steel-capped boot caught Larren squarely on the front of his hip bone. He had avoided being ruptured but the searing pain paralysed the whole left-hand side of his body and ripped a scream of agony from his throat.
The man from the Chevrolet poised for another kick, but Larren was past taking it now. The Englishman was blinded by rage and tears, and even when half immobilized he was still a killer. He thrust himself away from the car with a strength born of white hot fury, and the out-thrust index and third fingers of his left hand gouged savagely into his assailant’s eyes. It was the other man’s turn to scream but he was never allowed to finish. Larren’s hand flashed back and then snapped forward again in an open-handed killer blow that struck the bull neck with terrible force.
The man from the Chevrolet seemed to balance drunkenly on his feet, his eyes bulging and his head lolling stupidly to one side. Then he toppled over into a sprawling heap.
Larren hung on to the door handle of the Renault and gritted his teeth until the excruciating pain in his left hip began to fade. It took a long time and the agony made him sweat.
At last he was able to let go and turn his back to lean weakly against the car. He could feel the drying blood around his eye and mouth when he moved the muscles of his face, and he groped for a handkerchief to dab it away. Then he looked down at the untidy body at his feet with its broken neck and swore angrily.
When the bodyguard didn’t make his usual report it was obvious that Angelo Valedri was going to become worried about his daughter, and doubly wary of any new friends she might have made. Killing him was a mistake.
Still cursing his lack of control Larren slid shakily behind the wheel of the Renault and began to back it out of the olive grove. His hip was still on fire but at least he could drive.
CHAPTER 6: THE EMPTY BED
The drive back into Athens was the most painful half hour of motoring that Larren had ever experienced. Stabs of pain pulsed through his left hip every time he thrust the weight of his leg down to depress the clutch pedal and waves of giddiness swept over him in a sickly haze. He had to grit his teeth tightly and drove very slowly. He was hardly aware of what he was doing or where he was going and simply followed an instinctive urge to get away from the olive grove and the corpse of Valedri’s hired thug.
It was not until he was approaching the city that his mind began to clear, and the first landmark that he consciously recognized was the brightly lit, Byzantine-styled monastery at Daphne. He recalled seeing it on his way out and he realized that he was no more than four or five miles from the city centre. A few moments later the Renault pulled over the crest of a long gradual hill and below lay the lights of Athens with the floodlit Acropolis rising like a ghostly island of columned ruins from a sea of stars. Larren blinked at the scene, and then abruptly decided that it was time he started thinking again. And as he was still not capable of both thinking and driving at the same time he slowed down, pulled the Renault to the side of the road, and stopped.
He caught a glimpse of his face in his rear-view mirror and realized that the first thing he had to think about was the small matter of cleaning himself up before returning to his hotel. As they were at present his bruised and bloodied features would attract far too much attention. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and this time rubbed hard instead of dabbing at the dried blood.
He managed to remove all the stains from the side of his mouth, and saw upon closer inspection that there was only a small split on the corner of his lip that was barely noticeable. The only real mark that he could not remove was the colouring bruise and the shallow gash above his left eye. That was going to need sticking plaster. Mercifully the pain in his hip was fading into a nagging ache, but he knew without examining it properly that there would be another multi-coloured bruise covering the whole area. He swore sourly to himself and then closed his eyes and tried to relax for a few moments.
He knew that it was important that he should think matters out and with an effort he cleared his brain, forcing the remaining after-effects of his beating deep into the back of his mind. The events of the night had moved exceptionally fast and a few hours ago he had been blessing the good fortune that had put him so close to Carla Valedri. Now he could only curse the one moment of blind fury that had driven him to killing her bodyguard and could well undo all the progress he had made. He did not for a moment doubt the man’s story that he had been hired by Valedri, for it was the sort of obvious precaution that a man like Valedri would be expected to make. And the moment that Valedri learned of his man’s death then any new boyfriend of Carla’s would automatically become suspect.
Larren realized that it would be practically useless now for him to continue his attempt to reach Valedri through Carla, and the bitter wave of frustration that swept through him completely drowned the aches of his body. If he could not persuade Carla to take him out to Kyros then what other method was there of approaching the fortified island and completing his mission? And if he failed to complete the job how many people would die from the scourge of the red death in the weeks or months that it would take for the research team of British chemists to duplicate the antidote?
He pictured again the grim features of Smith as the little man had told the story of his niece’s death, and he knew that whatever he did he must not admit failure. Even without Carla there must be a way. He began recalling the events of the night yet again, going through them stage by stage and searching for a clue that would lead him to some new line of approach. The only outstanding point that he could think of that might be relevant to the case was the strange attitude of the man named Savino, and the other two men whom Larren was sure were acquainted with the young Greek.
Larren sat up suddenly, clamping his hands on the steering wheel and thinking fast. The thoughts that had been swirling vaguely through his brain for the last few minutes had abruptly merged into solid shape. Valedri’s concern for his daughter and Savino’s restrained fury when Larren had taken her away from the party all began to add up. Savino’s fury had not been merely that of a scorned lover, if it had been that then it would have bubbled over into the open violence that Larren had expected at the party. Savino’s anger at Larren’s intrusion had not been wholly emotional, it was as if there was something colder and more calculating behind his desires on Carla than merely another night in bed. And the large man and his companion had been there to back them up. Could their aim have been to kidnap Carla Valedri and force her father’s hand?
Larren realized that it was possible. Carla was the weak link in Valedri’s defences; Smith had recognized that; Valedri had seen it too: nobody who had appreciated the monetary value of the Ameytheline antidote could have missed it. It was quite possible that the party had been arranged and Carla invited solely so that Savino could spirit her away once the other guests had departed and she was alone. And the other two men could have been sent along just in case he needed help.
Larren turned the idea over in his mind and felt sure that he was on the right track, and then another thought burst among the rest. Anyone wishing to cash in on the antidote would have to work fast before the British chemists could come up with something of their own. And although that might take months it could just as easily be a matter of days. Speed was essential. And now he had killed the man from the Chevrolet Carla had no bodyguard to watch over her.
Quite instinctively Larren knew that Carla was in danger, and almost automatically he started the car up again and headed back into Athens. The more he thought about the matter the stronger became the feeling that he was right. He drove faster, and although his hip still ached he barely noticed it.
It seemed a long time before he was again pulling up outside the Hotel Tripolis, even though the streets had been almost clear of traffic and the drive had only taken a few minutes. He stopped the car and got out, gasping as his weight fell upon his left leg and grabbing at the open door for support. He looked up at the darkened windows of the hotel and then limped slowly over to the wide glass doors. The foyer was still brightly lit and the same clerk was dozing at the desk. Larren limped past without waking him.
He took the lift up to the second floor and then moved slowly down the corridor to Carla’s room. He paused outside her door, listening, and wishing that he was armed. Then he carefully tried the door handle.
The door was not locked. Larren moved through it, his palms sweating in the brief moment that he was outlined clearly in the opening. He moved to one side, pulled the door shut behind him and listened again. After a few moments he wiped his palms down his thighs to remove the sweat and switched on the light. There was no sound of sleep-heavy breathing and he already knew that the room was empty.
He crossed the few paces to the open door of the bedroom and switched the light on in there also. The bed was empty, the white sheets and the pink counterpane were thrown back and trailing on the floor. Carla’s black evening dress lay across a chair back, and on the carpet beside it lay her stockings, brassiere and a pair of very brief black lace panties. Larren realized that even if Carla had changed her dress to go out she would not, at this time of night, have changed her undies. She had left her bed, but not willingly. For shameless as she was, not even Carla Valedri would willingly stroll out of her hotel after midnight in the nude.
Quietly Larren switched off the lights and left the room, gently closing the door behind him. He took the lift back to the ground floor and was again careful not to wake the sleeping clerk as he re-crossed the foyer. He left the hotel and climbed back into his car. There was a hard glitter in his grey-green eyes and just the faintest trace of satisfaction around his unsmiling mouth. He was certain that Savino and his friends must be responsible for Carla’s disappearance, and he was only now beginning to realize how this new twist of fate could be twisted even farther to his favour. If he could only get her out of their hands then he would have made his biggest possible step to winning her confidence, and now that Savino had shown his hand it should only need a subtle hint to convince Valedri that the Greek had also been responsible for the death in the olive grove.
Larren started the Renault and swung its bonnet away from the kerb. He knew that the most likely place to get a lead on Carla’s present whereabouts was the beach villa where they had first met. There was a strong chance that Savino had taken her back there, but even if he hadn’t then the man named Dimitri who owned the house would probably know where she had been taken. Larren was convinced now that the party had been a trap to get Carla out of Athens where she could be more easily smuggled away, and as Dimitri owned the villa then he had to be a party to the plot.
Larren was tempted to stop at his own hotel and collect his automatic and his favourite sheath knife, but he knew he could not afford the delay. He drove straight past and then gathered speed. Soon he was back on the great six-laned highway to Sounion with the Renault touching 75 m.p.h. It was slow compared to his own MG sports, but the small saloon had not been built for speed and it was straining badly. Larren was in no mood to ease the car’s groaning and kept his foot hard down.
He stopped when he was still a quarter of a mile from the villa, concealing the car beneath some pines on the roadside and continuing on foot. The night air had turned cold and his left leg began to play up again as soon as he began walking. He tried to convince himself that the stiffness would wear off in time and kept going.
He covered half the remaining distance to the villa before leaving the road and turning his steps towards the sea. He passed through a small strip of the sweet-smelling pines and then crossed the low sand dunes until he reached the gently breaking line of the black waves. His movements were soundless on the soft sand as he changed direction again to follow the beach down to the villa. He moved as though he was a normal part of the dark moonless night.
His leg still dragged a little but apart from that Larren felt fit and, strangely enough, almost happy. The night was an old friend, and so was the stimulating feeling of being back in a silent no man’s land and stealthily approaching the enemy lines. His eyes were fully accustomed to the darkness now and when he neared the villa he was able to pick out its black shape against the dark sky. He exercised more caution, sinking down low and delicately maintaining his balance with his fingertips as he moved forward. The villa was in total darkness but Larren was unarmed and dealing with dangerous men — he was taking no chances. He lowered his body flat to the sand and began to cover the last sixty yards on his stomach.
He passed the little beach hut where he and Carla had changed earlier on and his movements became even more snail-like as his body slithered over the sand. He was barely moving when he stopped thirty yards short of the back porch of the villa and waited. There was still no sign of life but Larren did not trust the absolute stillness. As an agent of S.O.E. he had often lain motionless for over an hour while trying to detect the whereabouts of a hidden German sentry, and some deep and sensitive instinct was warning him that the same tactics would serve him now. The house appeared deserted but there was a feeling in Larren’s bones that he could not explain, a feeling born of long experience — a feeling that he was no longer alone in the night.
Five minutes passed … then ten … and still there was nothing to suggest that there was another living soul within miles — nothing except that vague feeling of not being alone. Without that Larren would have moved on, but it remained and so he waited. Another ten minutes passed. Larren stared at the darkened porch, his eyes unblinking. He saw nothing and he heard nothing but still he could not bring himself to go on. Five more slow, crawling minutes, and then Larren gradually became aware that all his senses were concentrated on one black corner of the porch.
There had been no sound or movement to indicate that there was a man standing there, but Larren knew that his instinct had not failed him. Whoever was keeping watch was no amateur. He was a trained professional and probably a killer. Probably he too had wartime experience in enemy territory. Quite abruptly Larren knew that the unknown, unseen sentry in the darkness was a man of his own kind — and he shivered.
Larren knew that even with the skill he had gained in knifing German sentries during the war he could never get close enough to take that mystery man by surprise, and gingerly he began to back away. His palms were sweating and it took him a long while to retreat far enough to feel safe. He was cursing himself now for not having stopped for the few seconds it would have taken him to pick up his gun.
He began to think hard and realized that if it was necessary to post a sentry on the back porch then obviously there was something inside the villa that needed guarding. Equally obviously that something could only be Carla, and the danger they would be expecting would probably be the man from the Chevrolet whom Larren had already killed. Grimly Larren began to circle round to the front of the villa. The front entrance would be guarded too of course, but he had to get in somehow and it was unlikely that the second guard could be anywhere near as dangerous as the first.
Larren was able to move fairly swiftly through the dark pines which flanked the walls of the building, but slipped down on to his stomach as he came in sight of the front porch. Again he lay motionless, but after thirty seconds a faint smile stirred on his lips. As he had expected there was another sentry, but this one was no professional. The slight slap as he swatted a fly from his face had marked the man as clearly as a luminous stripe down his back.
The man was leaning deep in the shadows of the porch, but although he was invisible in the blackness it made no difference now that Larren had spotted his position. Silently Larren wriggled over to the wall of the villa on his elbows and hips. His left hip was throbbing hotly but he spared no thought for that now. He rose slowly and silently to his feet and gently smoothed his palms down his thighs to remove the sweat. Barely stirring the air he moved along the wall of the building towards the porch.
