Ben sprinted down the corridor and up the stairs three at a time. As he made for the prison room he pulled the key out of his pocket. He sincerely hoped that Papa and Francesca were still there.
Luckily they were. The door swung open to reveal their startled faces gazing at him.
“Hurry,” he gasped. “We’ve got to get out.”
He helped Papa to his feet and led the way back into the corridor. As they started back towards the stairs one of the gangsters came loping round the corner. He stopped and let out a yell. Ben made as if to fire a gun at the bloke, although Donna’s weapon was still downstairs beside Alfredo. He was rewarded by seeing the villain dive for cover. Without further hesitation Ben grabbed the handle of the door opposite. He blessed their luck as it opened.
“In here.” He pushed them through into the darkened room and followed, slamming the door behind them. Francesca switched on the light to reveal an unoccupied bedroom with a massive bed beside the door.
“Quick. Get the bed across.” The ancient piece of furniture seemed to weigh a ton. Ben felt his muscles crack as he tried to drag it the few feet to the door. Francesca threw her weight in beside him and it moved a little at first and then with a rush as the feet came free. He heaved it as tight against the door as he could. That should take some moving from outside.
Beside him there came a rattle at the door handle and it opened a fraction. There was a heavy thump as the man applied his shoulder. With a protesting squeak the bed moved perhaps half an inch. Francesca and Papa hurried to push against it as though to keep the man out.
Now they could hear voices outside the door. It was only a matter of a minute or two before they broke in. Ben crossed to the window and tried to open it but it appeared to be locked. He applied both thumbs to the catch and suddenly it gave and he heaved the creaking casements open. A cold gust of damp air swept into the room.
He pushed back the protesting shutters and looked down into the forecourt. As yet there was no-one below. Away to the left the gatehouse appeared to be empty, the door left standing open. Presumably whoever might have been on guard had rushed into the house to deal with the emergency. How long had they got before the men came out again? Ben guessed they had no more than a minute or two to get out of the place before they were pursued.
The high wall round the villa garden was about thirty feet away. Beyond that, in the miserable grey dawn, the countryside didn’t look in the least like Southern Italy. Heavy clouds were streaming in from the dark, wild sea and buffeting into the mountains. The blustery wind tugged at the thorn bushes clinging to the limestone hillsides. The gravel in the forecourt looked damp and greasy.
“Francesca,” called Ben. “If you go first and hang on to my hands you’ll only have a drop of about six feet – er, two metres – to the gravel. Remember to bend your knees as you land.”
There was another crash against the door.
“Come on. Hurry up.”
She looked startled, but leaped into action as soon as she realized what he intended. He helped her over the window cill and held her as she jumped to the ground. She toppled onto her back as she landed but immediately got up, obviously without injury.
As soon as she was ready he picked up the little old man and sat him on the cill with his feet hanging out. He hardly weighed any more than Francesca. Holding him by his wrists, Ben lowered him as far as he could towards her waiting arms.
“All right? Try to catch him under his armpits as I let him go. Here he comes.”
More thumps came from the door behind him and the timber creaked as one of the joints gave. He let go Papa’s wrists and Francesca caught him magnificently. Although they both fell over on to the gravel, they began to get to their feet and it appeared that neither was hurt.
There was another crash behind him and the bed moved another half inch. A few more like that and someone would be able to squeeze in. Without further hesitation Ben hurdled the window cill. He hung on to the frame for a second to slow his descent and then toppled forward as he hit the ground with bent knees.
“Try the gates,” he suggested to Francesca as he got to his feet again. They only had a short time before their pursuers realized they had got out of the room. “I’ll cover the front door to slow them down.”
He made for the porch. His route took him past a big Mercedes parked on the forecourt. He eyed it speculatively. That was the sort of thing they needed for an escape. On a whim he tried the door. It was open. They hadn’t bothered to lock the car because it was inside the locked gate.
Ben hesitated for a moment as his mind took in the possibilities. He climbed in to the driver’s seat and checked the controls. If only . . .
Then he saw the keys were still in the ignition. What a stroke of luck!
“The gates are locked.” Francesca turned towards the gatehouse with Papa trailing behind her.
“Don’t bother with that.” He checked the control to the automatic gearbox.
He saw her pause uncertainly by the gatepost.
“Keep clear.” He slammed the door and turned the key in the ignition.
It was a beautiful car. The engine started first time. The electronic choke set it running at a fast tick-over. Ben set the automatic gear lever to “Reverse”, released the handbrake and pressed his foot down experimentally on the accelerator. With a deep grumble of the five-litre engine the car swooped backwards towards the porch as he swung the wheel to line up on the gates. In the rear view mirror he saw Guido come through the front door and he deliberately crashed the tail end of the car into one of the porch pillars, sending the man into a frantic dive to avoid being crushed by the heavy vehicle or any falling masonry.
Before the crunch of the impact had died away, Ben moved the lever to “Drive” and stamped the throttle pedal to the floor. The engine roared and the big car lurched and shuddered as the tyres bit into the loose gravel. A shower of stinging stones was thrown into the faces of the other pursuers as they came through the front door. The next second the car began to move forward, but not quickly enough as he aimed it at the gates. Ben had a fleeting glimpse of Francesca and Papa crouching by the left hand gatepost as he ducked down behind the steering wheel.
The Mercedes hit the gates at a slight angle at about fifteen miles an hour. There was a fearsome crash. Ben’s nose came into violent contact with the padded steering wheel and a mist of tears blotted out his vision for a second. The laminated windscreen crazed across but stayed in the frame.
The gates must have been solidly built. For, despite being comprehensively bent out of shape by three tons of luxury limousine, they still held together strongly enough to deflect the right front wing of the car into the gatepost and to stall the engine. The car slewed sideways and stopped, nearly blocking the entrance. For a further second there was a deathly silence.
Ben shook his head. There came a rattling at one of the rear doors. It brought him back to his senses and he looked round. Francesca and Papa were just outside. The gangsters were starting to run the thirty yards or so towards them. He leaned across and opened it for them. They tumbled in and Ben snapped the lock down before the pursuers got to them. The crooks started to hammer furiously at the side of the car.
Ben looked round for inspiration. He could see that the gates had remained locked at the top but had been forced outwards about three feet at the bottom. He found he could open the driver’s door about a foot. He forced it further, cracking the glass and bending the thin top frame.
“Follow me.” He slipped out at the bottom on to the wet gravel.
He saw there was room to get under the gate. He turned back to help Papa who was being pushed out of the car by Francesca. Somehow they managed to drag the old man out. But shouts from the other side of the car made them realise that the gangsters were after them. A minute later a hammering broke out on the other side of the car as the men attacked it.
“Quick. Through the gap at the bottom.”
The thre
e of them went down on their knees. Ben forced his way through the narrow gap. Papa was dragged out unceremoniously with Francesca pushing from behind. Then Ben pulled her through and the three of them staggered out into the roadway. The tinkling of glass as the car windows were smashed in told them they were only half a minute ahead.
“We’d better run for it. Let’s hope we can hitch a lift.”
Papa shook his head, gasping for breath already as he tried to speak.
Francesca spoke for him. “He says you must leave us. He cannot run.”
“I’m not leaving you,” said Ben. “We’re sticking together. If necessary I’ll have to carry him.”
“Wait!” Francesca looked up. “I can hear something.”
The next second the little white Alfa came hurtling round the bend.