There was a shout behind him and the two men following him broke into a run. That galvanized Ben into furious activity. With a desperate urgency he leaped for the nearest door in the wall to his left. Luckily it opened as he turned the handle. He pushed inside and slammed the door behind him.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he could see a flight of stairs straight ahead. He went up these three at a time, fear giving his feet a nimble sureness. At the top he turned right and tried the door facing him. It was locked.
He heard the front door crash open and the light flooded in from the street. As quietly as possible he dashed along the landing and up the next flight of stairs. This time the door on the right opened. Breathing heavily, he stepped inside. It was then he realised he was still carrying his suitcase in his left hand.
Ben found he was in a dark parlour filled with massive, ornate furniture which left little floor space. A great lace-covered table filled the centre of the room. On the opposite wall was a large oval mirror which was partly obscured by yellowing drapes. In a corner to the right was a small shrine with a candle which flickered in front of a painting of the Virgin Mary. He turned back and closed the door, slipping home the iron bolt near the floor for extra security. Perhaps, if he kept quiet, they might not find him.
But that hope was short-lived. As he straightened up he was startled by a scream from behind him. Ben spun round. He saw a short, plump, middle-aged woman in a black dress advancing on him from the door at the back of the room. She had an ornate fire poker in her right hand. Suddenly she rushed at him with the poker raised and her voice babbling excited Italian. But at the same moment there came a violent shaking of the door behind him and she froze into immobility. There was a crash as someone applied a shoulder to the door.
Ben edged round the table towards a pair of narrow double doors which he had noticed leading towards the front of the house. As he did so there was another crash and the door burst open. The slick Italian stepped into the room followed by the other two gangsters.
The hood held out his left hand towards Ben - the one without the knife. It was a shock to hear him speak in broken English. That meant that he obviously knew who Ben was.
“Pliss. You give me the mock.”
“What?”
“We know you have it.”
He stepped forward a pace and Ben backed closer to the double doors.
“You do not go.”
When Ben continued to retreat things started to happen quickly. With hardly a pause the hood raised his right arm and threw the knife straight at him. Ben’s automatic reaction was to jerk up his case to protect himself and the knife buried itself up to the hilt in its top with a dull thud. More astonished than frightened, Ben reached down and caught hold of the flat wooden handle. He pulled and the knife came out with a hollow creak. He found himself looking at a smooth-sided little implement with a blade no longer than the handle. It was surprisingly heavy. He felt an inconsequential feeling of regret about the damage it would have done to his clothes. Grasping the little knife firmly, he raised his eyes and the blade to the Italians. They paused, uncertain of his intentions.
The woman let out a loud wail. Without even looking at her, the hood hit her across the face with the flat of his hand. She toppled back against the wall and slid slowly down until she was sitting on the floor. Her eyes were wide with terror and her mouth had dropped open to reveal an ugly row of yellowed teeth.
The hood started to move round the table towards him. One of the gangsters followed him and his mate went the other way. Ben decided it was time to get out. Cautiously he backed through the swing doors behind him, making threatening gestures at them with the knife. He glanced behind him. The room he had entered had a high ceiling. There was a large bed in one corner which was half covered with an untidy heap of cushions. A variety of heavy furniture stood against the walls. But on the other side of the room was a pair of double French windows which were standing open. Full-length shutters were closed across the window opening to keep out the heat.
With a sudden rush Ben let the doors swing closed and made for the shutters. They clattered open as he banged into them and he found himself on a small balcony protected by a metal railing about three feet high. A couple of straggly pot plants occupied one end. Ben made for the other end, looking down to the street as he went. It was at least twenty feet below. That was a long way to fall without injury. There was nobody down there to whom he could appeal for help.
The swing doors banged open behind him and made his decision for him. As the Italians burst onto the balcony Ben hurled his damaged case at them and had the satisfaction of seeing all three of them go down in a heap of jumbled arms and legs. Without further hesitation he made for the balcony rail.
A washing line hung across the street to a balcony on the other side. He grabbed it and slashed at it with the knife. Most of the strands of the rope parted but at least two remained. However he was already hurdling the rail, dropping the knife as he went, and grabbing the washing line with both hands. He frantically began to pull himself across the street hand over hand on the rope, half-sliding as it sagged.
He had only gone three or four feet when the last two strands parted with a twang and he found himself hurtling through the air. With a desperate yell he twisted his body, let go of the rope and landed feet first in a heap of garbage. It was probably that which saved him from breaking an ankle. He overbalanced, fell flat on his back, and the wind was knocked out of him with a whoosh. As he looked up at the balcony the three Italian heads appeared side by side, peering down at him. The next moment they were gone and Ben recovered his sense of urgency.