Luciano's Luck Read Free

right, come in. I'll see what she has to say.' Carter stepped inside and stood there, dripping rain on to the black and white ceramic tiles. The manservant frowned his displeasure, walked across the hall and went through a green baize door into a large kitchen. He paused just inside the door, took a Walther automatic from his pocket, checked it quickly then opened a cupboard beside the old-fashioned iron stove and took out a military field telephone. He wound the handle and waited, whistling softly to himself, tapping the Walther against his thigh. There was the murmur of a voice at the other end and he said in German, 'Schafer - at the villa. Carter's turned up at last. No problem. I'll hold him till you get here.' He replaced the telephone in the cupboard, turned and still whistling softly, moved back to the door. Carter shivered, suddenly cold, aware for the first time that the rain had soaked through to his skin. Almost over now. God, but he was tired. In the gilt mirror on the other side of the hall he could see his reflection. A middle-aged Sicilian peasant, badly in need of a shave, hair too long, �fh sullen, brutalized features, patched tweed suit and ther leggings, a shotgun, the traditional lupara with Sawn-off barrels, hanging from his left shoulder. gut not for much longer. Soon there would be Cairo, Shepherd's Hotel, hot baths, clean sheets, seven-course meals and ice-cold champagne. Dom Perignon 35. He still had, after all, an infallible source of supply. The green baize door opened in the mirror behind him and the manservant came through. Carter turned. 'The Contessa will see me?' 'She would if she could, only she isn't here. We took her away three days ago.' His right hand came up holding the Walther and now he was speaking in English. 'The shotgun. Major Carter. On the floor, very gently, then turn, hands against the wall.' Strange, but now that it had happened, this moment that he had always known would come one day, Carter was aware of a curious sensation of relief. He didn't even attempt to play Ciccio any more, but put down the lupara as instructed and turned to face the wall. 'German?' he asked. 'I'm afraid so.' A hand searched him expertly. 'Shafer. Geheimefeldpolizei. I was beginning to think you weren't coming.' He stepped back and Carter turned to face him. 'The Contessa?' 'The Gestapo have her. They've been waiting for you in Bellona for three days now. I've just telephoned through from the kitchen. They'll be here in twenty minutes.' 'I see,' Carter said. 'So what do we do now?' 'We wait.' Schafer motioned him through into the dining room. Carter paused, looking down at the open fire, steam rising from his damp clothes, and behind him Schafer sat at the end of the long dining table, took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, then pushed the pack along the table. Carter took one gratefully and when he struck the match, his fingers trembled slightly. Schafer said, 'There's brandy on the sideboard. You look as if you could do with it.' Carter went round the table and helped himself. The brandy was the local variety, raw and pungent, it burned as it went down and he coughed, struggling for breath. He poured himself another and turned to Schafer. 'What about you?' 'Why not?' Carter found another glass and moved to the table. 'Say when,' he said and started to pour. Schafer still covered him with the Walther. Raising the glass to his lips he said, 'I'm sorry about this, Major. I don't like those Gestapo bastards any more than you do, but I've got a job to do.' 'Haven't we all,' Carter said. He swung the decanter in an arc against the German's skull, at the same time grabbing for the wrist of the hand that held the Walther, desperately trying to deflect it. He swung the decanter again so that it splintered into dozens of pieces, brandy spurting across Schafer's head and face, mingling with the blood. Incredibly, Schafer's left fist managed a punch of considerable force high on Carter's right cheek,