The Keys of Hell Read Free Page B

side.
    “Ah, there you are, darling,” he said in Italian. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
    Her reflexes were excellent. She turned smoothly, assessing him against the general situation in a split second and making her decision.
    She reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You said you’d only be ten minutes. It’s really too bad of you.”
    The air force colonel had already faded discreetly into the crowd and Chavasse grinned. “How about a glass of Bollinger? I really think we should celebrate.”
    “I think that would be rather nice, Mr. Chavasse,” she said in excellent English. “On the terrace, perhaps. It’s cooler there.”
    Chavasse helped himself to two glasses of champagne from the table and followed her through the crowd, a slight frown on his face. It was cool on the terrace, the traffic sounds muted and far away and the scent of jasmine heavy on the night air.
    She sat on the balustrade and took a deep breath. “Isn’t it a wonderful night?” She turned and looked at him and laughter bubbled out of her. “Francesca—Francesca Minetti.”
    She held out her hand and Chavasse gave her one of the glasses of champagne and grinned. “You seem to know who I am already.”
    She leaned back and looked up at the stars. When she spoke it was as if she were reciting a lesson hard-learned.
    “Paul Chavasse, born Paris, 1928, father French, mother English. Educated at Sorbonne, Cambridge and Harvard Universities. Ph.D. Modern Languages, multilingual. University lecturer until 1954. Since then…”
    Her voice trailed away and she looked at him thoughtfully. Chavasse lit a cigarette, no longer tired. “Since then…?”
    “Well, you’re on the books as a Third Secretary, but you certainly don’t look like one.”
    “What would you say I did look like?” he said calmly.
    “Oh, I don’t know. Someone who got about a lot.” She swallowed some more champagne and said casually, “How was Albania? I was surprised you made it out in one piece. When the Tirana connection went dead we wrote you off.”
    She started to laugh again, her head back, and behind Chavasse a voice said, “Is she giving you a hard time, Paul?”
    Murchison, the First Secretary, limped across the terrace. He was a handsome, urbane man, face bronzed and healthy, the bar of medals a splash of bright color on the left breast of his jacket.
    “Let’s say she knows rather too much about me for my personal peace of mind.”
    “Should do,” Murchison said. “Francesca works for the Bureau. She was your radio contact last week. One of our best operatives.”
    Chavasse turned. “You were the one who relayed the message from Scutari warning me to get out fast?”
    She bowed. “Happy to be of service.”
    Before Chavasse could continue, Murchison took him firmly by the arm. “Now don’t start getting emotional, Paul. Your boss has just got in and he wants to see you. You and Francesca can talk over old times later.”
    Chavasse squeezed her hand. “That’s a promise. Don’t go away.”
    “I’ll wait right here,” she assured him, and he turned and followed Murchison inside.
    They moved through the crowded ballroom into the entrance hall, passed the two uniformed footmen at the bottom of the grand staircase and mounted to the first floor.
    The long, thickly carpeted corridor was quiet and the music, echoing from the ballroom, might have been from another world. They went up half a dozen steps, turned into a shorter side passage and paused outside a white-painted door.
    “In here, old man,” Murchison said. “Try not to be too long. We’ve a cabaret starting in half an hour. Really quite something, I promise you.”
    He moved back along the passage, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet, and Chavasse knocked on the door, opened it and went in.
    The room was a small, plainly furnished office, its walls painted a neutral shade of green. The young woman who sat at the desk writing busily was attractive in