Luciano's Luck Read Free

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. ‘Shäfer. 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.’ Schäfer motioned him through into the dining room.
    Carter paused, looking down at the open fire, steam rising from his damp clothes, and behind him Schäfer 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.
    Schäfer 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 Schäfer.
    ‘What about you?’
    ‘Why not?’
    Carter found another glass and moved to the table. ‘Say when,’ he said and started to pour.
    Schäfer 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 Schäfer's head and face, mingling with the blood. Incredibly, Schäfer's left fist managed a punch of considerable force high on Carter's right cheek, splitting the flesh to the bone, before clutching him by the throat.
    They fell across the table and rolled over the edge to the floor and Carter was aware of one blow after another to the body and the pistol exploding between them. Somehow, he found himself up on one knee, twisting the other's wrist up and around until the bone cracked and the Walther jumped into the air, landing in the hearth.
    The German screamed, his head going back, and Carter punched him in the open throat with knuckles extended. Schäfer rolled over on to his face and lay still and Carter turned and ran into the hall. He grabbed for the shotgun, slinging it over his shoulder as he made for the front door.
    There was a dreamlike quality to everything. It was as if he was moving in slow motion, no strength to him, so that even opening the front door was an effort. He leaned against the balustrade of the porch, aware now that the front of his jacket was soaked with blood, not Schäfer's but his own. When he slipped a hand inside his shirt he could feel the lips of the wound like raw meat where a bullet had ripped through his left side.
    No time for that, not now for he was aware of the sound of vehicles approaching on the road, very fast. He went lurching down the steps, picked up the bicycle and hurriedly retraced his steps through the garden to the rear gate.
    He reached the shelter of the pine trees below the villa, turned in time to see a