Mayhem in Greece

by Dennis Wheatley

  Yet, all thoughts of sex apart, he enjoyed basking in the company of pretty girls, and secretly it tormented him that he could find so little to say to them that he had never succeeded in making a friend of one. Being so inept with them and never having been known to ask a girl to lunch or dine was one of the things with which Euan Wettering had freqently taunted him. The memory of Euan’s jibes made him flush now, and he would have given a very great deal to have had a girl friend whom he could have rung up there and then and asked out to supper, instead of having to celebrate on his own.

  He had only just finished dressing when the door-bell of his suite rang. The chambermaid who turned down his bed had a passkey, but the waiters were not allowed keys; so, assuming that the supper he had ordered had been brought up, he walked out into the narrow hall and opened the door.

  There, within a foot of him stood Krajcir, and with him was the taciturn, blue-jowled Comrade Cepicka who, the previous Monday, had piloted him from the Czech Legation to the Travel Agency. Cepicka, looking more than ever like an ex-Gestapo thug, was wearing a long cloak. Half-hidden by it, he held an automatic, and he was pointing it at Robbie’s stomach.

  8

  ‘Stop Thief! Stop Thief!’

  For once, Robbie’s mind worked swiftly. Before either of the men had time to put a foot in the door, he slammed it in their faces. Turning, he dashed into his sitting room, slammed the door of that, too, and shot the bolt.

  Panic-stricken, he gazed wildly round him. What was he to do? Cepicka, having pointed a gun at him, showed that they meant business. He ought to have realised that they would stop at nothing to get back Nejedly’s brief-case. When he was taken on at the agency, he had been asked for his private address, and it had not occurred to him that it might be a wise precaution to conceal from Krajcir that he was living at the Grande Bretagne. He recalled Krajcir raising his eyebrows and remarking on the incongruity of a young man who was staying at the most expensive hotel in Athens applying for such a poorly paid post. By then, he was becoming used to lying to the Czechs so he had said that his uncle made him a generous allowance, but had threatened to cut it off unless he found himself a regular job.

  The sound of a sharp crack put an abrupt end to his brief meditations. Angrily he upbraided himself for wasting even seconds recalling the past. What did the reason matter for their having been able to run him to earth so quickly? They were after him, and with a gun. The sound he had just heard could only mean that they had already forced the lock on the outer door. Cepicka looked the kind of man who was used to doing that sort of thing. No doubt he had come well prepared with a pocketful of implements. In another few moments, they would have forced their way into the sitting room.

  There was only one thing for it. To telephone down to the office was no use. His enemies would have broken in long before help could reach him. Grabbing the brief-case, Robbie pulled wide the French window of the room, and ran out on to its narrow balcony. Alongside the balcony was an iron fire-escape. Throwing a leg over the balcony railing, he grasped a rung of the ladder with his free hand, then swung himself out on to it. The ladder led down to a courtyard in which goods were delivered at the back of the hotel. As Robbie’s room was on the third floor, he had quite a long way to go, and the speed of his descent was considerably hampered by the brief-case.

  When he was about two-thirds of the way down, he heard a shout from above. Looking up, he saw the foreshortened silhouettes of Krajcir and Cepicka framed in his lighted window. Both of them were leaning over the balcony rail, and Cepicka called down to him in a guttural voice:

  ‘Stop! Stop! Stay where you are, or I shoot!’

  Robbie’s heart gave a lurch. As the courtyard, now a dozen feet below him, was pitch dark, his figure was so indistinct against it that only a lucky shot could have hit him. But he was unaware of that, and imagined himself as a target in a shooting gallery. He was, moreover, too inexperienced to realise that secret agents may threaten their enemies, but are not such fools as to shoot them—except if cornered themselves—in places where there is a high risk that the shot will be heard and they are very likely to be caught. The idea of a bullet smacking into the top of his head terrified him. Swiftly he decided that allowing himself to be shot was not going to prevent their getting back the brief-case; and that, while it was one thing to lie for one’s country, it was quite another to die for it to no good purpose. Halting in his tracks, he called up hastily:

  ‘All right! Don’t shoot. I won’t go any further.’

  It was then that his enemies blundered. Instead of ordering him to bring the brief-case back up to his room, they climbed out on to the fire-escape to come down and get it.

  Krajcir was nearer the ladder, so got on to it first. While he descended the first dozen rungs, Robbie watched him, motionless, his mind entirely occupied with the bitter thought of having to surrender his prize. Suddenly, as he stared upward, it came to him that he was no longer covered. Even if Cepicka, while clinging to the ladder with one hand, tried to shoot him with the other, he would find it impossible, because Krajcir’s bulky body formed a barrier between them.

  Robbie gave a quick glance over his shoulder. The courtyard was quite small, and there was not a gleam of light in it. He could only just make out the entrance to a narrow passage that led from it to the street. Deciding that he would be very unlucky if he failed to reach it before the others got to the bottom of the ladder, he went down another five rungs on tiptoe. That brought him to the bottom section of the ladder, an eight-foot length which, as a precaution against burglars, was held horizontal by weights so that it could not be mounted from below. As he stepped on it, the weights lifted and its lower end swung down, hitting the ground with a loud clang.

  Krajcir and Cepicka both paused in their descent and shouted something at him. But he was now committed to his attempt. Still clutching the brief-case, he slithered down the last few feet, stumbled on reaching the ground, recovered and dashed headlong for the entrance to the passage.

  It was about two hundred feet in length. As he shot out of it into the street, he took a swift look over his shoulder. The darkness hid all sign of movement, but he knew that his enemies were after him. He could hear their running feet pounding across the stones of the courtyard.

  Cannoning into an old gentleman who upbraided him for his clumsiness, he darted across the empty road. A moment later, a stream of traffic, just released from the cross-section a hundred yards away, filled it and temporarily masked him from the sight of his pursuers. Turning left, he headed for Stadium Street, knowing that there would be plenty of people there, and hoping to elude his enemies by mingling with the crowd. His long, swift strides quickly brought him to the corner.

  Dodging in and out of the throng of pedestrians, he made his way down the broad boulevard. It was much lighter there, so he could see the strollers’ faces clearly while thrusting his way through the gaps between them. As he did so, he wondered why so many of them gave him looks of astonishment. Suddenly he caught sight of his reflection in a shop window and gave a gasp of dismay. His head was still wrapped in its turban of towelling. In combination with his dinner-jacket suit, it made him a ludicrous sight. A moment later, somewhere in his rear he heard shouts in Greek of:

  ‘Stop thief! Stop thief!’

  He did not for an instant doubt that those cries applied to him. That accursed turban, bobbing along among the crowd, had given him away. Krajcir or Cepicka must have spotted it, and were after him again. He broke into a run, knocking people right and left as the cry ‘Stop thief!’ was taken up by a dozen voices. One man tried to clutch him, but Robbie fended him off with a shove that sent him reeling into the gutter. As if by magic, the other men and girls coming in his direction stepped aside hastily to give him passage, rather than attempt to grapple with such an obviously desperate character.

  Breathless, but still running like a champion, he reached the broad side-street opposite Klafthmonos Square, which links Stadium Street with Venize
lou Street. At the junction a traffic policeman, his attention attracted by the shouting, blew his whistle. Robbie dived round the corner out of the policeman’s view, and raced on. But now that the police were about to join the hunt against him, he felt that his chances of escape were hopeless. In spite of all the lucky breaks he had had, matters had come full cycle. He was back where he had been when threatened by Nejedly in the agency; about to be dragged off to the police station and charged with theft.

  But to prove theft, evidence of theft had to be produced. Nejedly had intended to make a false statement and, with Krajcir as his witness, use marked banknotes for that purpose. Now it would not be money but the brief-case which he would be charged with stealing. If only he could get rid of that, there would be no evidence against him.

  As though by a special dispensation of the gods at his patroness Athene’s request, the idea had no sooner entered his head than he realised that he was passing a site on which a new building was going up. Steel scaffolding already framed three skeleton floors while, at street level, a hundred and fifty foot frontage was screened from the pavement only by a temporary arrangement of crossed poles. Short, broad Korai Street, into which he had wheeled, was comparatively deserted. In a matter of seconds, he had scrambled over one of the low barriers, and was plunging about amongst heaps of sand, loose stones and rubble.

  His pursuers had seen him dash round the corner but, by the time they came opposite the new building, he was well inside it. In there, it was as dark as it had been in the courtyard. The lights in the street hardly penetrated the gloom, revealing only dimly a forest of square cement pillars that rose from a floor that had been only partly boarded over.

  There was now shouting in the street outside. Hastily he sought a place in which he could conceal the brief-case. The dim cavern in which he crouched presented only stark, vaguely-sensed rectangles, with not a contour among them that might afford a hiding-place. Its only irregularity lay in the floor. In some places there were piles of boards, in others open sections where joists and the stretches of concrete between them still lay exposed. That left him no choice. Kneeling down, he thrust the brief-case as far as he could under one of the boarded-over areas, then unwound his towel-turban and pushed it between two other joists that had boards nailed down on them.

  The shouting out in the street had made him fear that, at any moment, he would be discovered, but apparently no one had seen him jump the barrier, for the noise passed and gradually died down. While running he had felt no pain from his injured leg, but now, as he crouched behind one of the big, square pillars, still trying to regain his breath, it began to throb as though being hit rhythmically with a hammer.

  In an attempt to divert his thoughts from it, he strove to think out his next move. On consideration, now that he could no longer be incriminated by possession of the brief-case, he saw no reason why he should not make his way back to the Grand Bretagne. He could tell the hall porter that thieves had broken into his room; that he had valuable jewels there, so feared another raid; and, in case Cepicka tried to pay him a second visit, arrange for a man to stand guard all night outside his suite. All the same, he thought it wise to continue to lie ‘doggo’ for a while, until anyone who had seen him being chased was well clear of the vicinity.

  Accordingly he remained where he was, his eyes closed and striving to ignore the painful throbbing in his leg, for what he reckoned to be a good twenty minutes. Then, straightening himself up, he tiptoed across the firm part of the floor to the barrier, and peered out. People were passing only intermittently. Taking advantage of a moment when no one was near enough to notice him, he slipped out on to the pavement.

  Turning right, he walked quickly up the slope toward Venizelou Street then, at the corner, turned right again along it. As he did so, a shout went up from the opposite corner. To judge time when in darkness and a state of great anxiety is very difficult, and he had not bothered to put on his wrist watch again after taking it off to wash his head. Instead of remaining in hiding for twenty minutes, he had been lost to his pursuers for less than ten.

  They had known that he must have gone to earth somewhere near-by, and were still keeping a watch for him. He gave a startled glance in the direction from which the shout had come. Cepicka, Krajcir and a policeman were standing in a group on the corner. Although he had got rid of his tell-tale turban, they had spotted him. Both the Czechs were pointing in his direction. Once more he took to his heels.

  For a moment, Fortune relented and favoured him. A stream of traffic cut off his enemies. That gave him a good, flying start. Again he plunged through the crowd, scattering people right and left. As he darted between them, he tried to console himself with the thought that if he were caught, they would not now be able to charge him with stealing the briefcase. But by the time he had covered a hundred yards, it struck him that Krajcir might still trump up against him a charge of having stolen money from the agency. As he thought of that, his worst fears were realised. He heard the shrilling of the policeman’s whistle. And again the cry was raised: ‘Stop thief! Stop thief!’

  Desperately he raced on, dodging some groups of pedestrians and thrusting aside the few men who half-heartedly attempted to tackle him, as though all his life he had played rugger with enthusiasm. He was still heading for the Grande Bretagne, although he now had little idea what he was going to do should he succeed in reaching it. The hall porter would certainly not be able or willing to save him from arrest by the police; yet he continued his wild career towards the hotel, as though to get there was an end in itself.

  The blocks between Stadium Street and Venizelou Street are separated by a number of side streets. In almost every case, as he crossed them, the lights favoured him by letting traffic through that temporarily checked his pursuers. But by the time he reached Gian Smats Street, the last he had to cross before reaching the hotel, a mob of fifty people, headed by the policeman, was close on his heels.

  The traffic was now against him. Only some desperate measure could save him from immediate capture. A private car, with two suitcases on its roof, and a man and girl inside, must have run him down if he had attempted to cross the road at that moment. He waited ten seconds. The policeman stretched out a hand to seize him by the collar. At that very instant, he took a flying leap and grabbed the roof rack of the passing car.

  It carried him round the corner and, as traffic in Greece takes the right-hand side of the road, in the direction in which he had been heading. The girl screamed and the man cursed him. The car had been moving at a good pace, but its driver applied his brakes and, after fifty yards, brought it to a halt. While being dragged by the car, Robbie’s feet had been bumping along the ground. As it pulled up, he let go of the luggage rack, stumbled, regained his balance and ran round in front of it on to the pavement. Right in front of him now was the Grande Bretagne’s side entrance, which led to the hotel’s banqueting and ball rooms.

  Robbie gave a swift glance to his right. Thirty yards away, the policeman was coming on full tilt. He had now been joined by another, and they headed an excited crowd of idlers who had taken up the chase. Well to the front, Robbie glimpsed Cepicka, his scowling face now bright red with his exertions. Robbie knew that he could not hope for protection from the management of the hotel, but his nine days’ stay there had given him a thorough knowledge of its ground-floor geography. With the new lead he had gained, he thought there was a sporting chance that he would be able to elude his pursuers in its maze of rooms and passages and, perhaps, find a hiding place before they could catch up with him.

  As he dived for the big, glass double doors, the hall porter on duty there was just coming out. They collided violently. Robbie was swung round so that he faced towards Constitution Square. Suddenly his glance lit on a familiar sight. His uncle’s Rolls was standing a few yards in front of the car on to which he had leapt. Beside it, staring at him in amazement, stood his uncle’s chauffeur, Tompkins.

  Thrusting the hall porter aside, he sprinted t
oward the Rolls. Tompkins, an old soldier with all the prejudices against ‘foreigners’ and their police of a Briton of his class, sized up the situation instantly. His not to reason why, his boss’ nephew was in trouble. In a brace of shakes, he had both doors of the car open, and had scrambled into the driver’s seat. With a gasp, Robbie flung himself into the back and slammed the door behind him.

  The clutch slid in, the big car slid forward. Robbie righted himself on the seat, leaned forward and cried huskily: ‘Well done, Tompkins! Back to the Embassy, and for God’s sake step on it.’

  ‘O.K., Mr. Robbie,’ came the unruffled reply. None of the servants at the Embassy ever called Robbie ‘Mr. Grenn’. Perhaps it was his never-failing cheerfulness, simplicity and kindliness, but it never occurred to them to condemn the useless life he led, and they took a far better view of him than did his uncle.

  Squirming round, Robbie looked out through the back window of the car. What he saw made him bite his lip. He was not out of the wood yet. The two policemen had commandeered the car on which he had taken such a risky lift, and it was giving chase. Behind it, Cepicka was just jumping into a taxi, and another car had made a quick turn out of the line of oncoming traffic, with the evident intention of joining in the hunt. If the Rolls was checked by traffic lights and those cars came up with it, he might still be cornered and arrested.