Dennis Wheatley - Mayhem in Greece

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 tip-toe. 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 stroller's 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 send 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 Venizelou 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, tlje idea had no sooner entered his head than he realized 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.