Free The Doors Open by Michael Gilbert

yourself, when I last had the pleasure–”
    “Good God,” said Nap, with undisguised relief. “It’s – wait a jiffy – Angus McCann.”
    “Right.”
    “You were the chap in charge of that commando crowd – near Besançon – August 1944–”
    “Right,” said McCann again. “And we’ll have a good yarn about it later. At the moment, I suppose, you know you’re well and truly on the spot.”
    Nap looked round. The long room was entirely empty. Even the waiters had gone.
    “Yes,” he said. “Yes. What’s the next move?”
    “Follow me,” said McCann. “Keep close behind me, and never, for one instant, stop praying. Put your hat on – it may save your head. And carry your coat. Drop it at once if anything starts. You’ll need both hands.”
    The two men picked their way down the room towards the vestibule. The silence was unnerving.
    The entrance hall of the Mogador was really a small bar. A counter ran up one side. This room, too, was empty, except for a man, who sat on one of the high stools, with his back to the bar, swinging his legs.
    “Now look here, Lucy,” said McCann. “Be a good chap and open that door. We don’t want any trouble.”
    The man addressed as Lucy – his real name, by the way, was Luciano Capelli – climbed down from his stool, walked slowly up to McCann, and said with venomous distinctness, “You keep outta this, eh.”
    McCann stood his ground.
    “Now listen,” he said, and he still sounded anxious to please. “This chap’s a friend of mine. A very old friend. Anything that happens to him happens to me, too.”
    “And if something does happen to you, eh?”
    “Birdy won’t like it, you know.”
    “I don’t give thatta much for Birdy,” said Luciano; he accompanied his words with an exceedingly vulgar and expressive gesture. Nevertheless it seemed that a thoughtful look had come into his eye.
    But for the fact that the street door was undoubtedly locked, and that he had a feeling that a number of men were at call within the inner Club door, awaiting only the result of the present negotiations, Nap might have found the whole situation amusing. Luciano was a black-haired, intensely virile little Italian with a white face which looked as if it was permanently set in a one-sided grin; closer inspection suggested that this was the result of a long, dry knife-scar running from the side of his cheek, past his mouth and down to his chin. His wavy black head scarcely came up to McCann’s massive shoulder.
    “You keep outta this,” said Luciano again. “No one’s gointa hurt your friend. We just wanta word with him, eh.”
    “Be your age,” said McCann. “I’ve already seen Hoppy and ‘Dumb-bell’; they got here just ahead of me. And Tony was in the dining-room. The only talking those lads do, they do with their boots.”
    During these exchanges neither side so much as looked at Nap who felt exactly like a schoolboy who is being argued over by his father and the headmaster (“Really, sir. Discipline must come first,” “But I assure you the boy meant no harm–”).
    “Basta,” said Luciano with a sudden gleam of anger in his eyes. “I have warned you. If you interfere, you will get hurt perhaps. That is not my fault.”
    “All right,” said McCann. “I hoped we could settle this without hard feelings. Now just help yourself to a look out of the window.”
    Without taking his eyes off them, Luciano sidled across to the window, then lifted a corner of the lace curtain and shot a quick glance out.
    “You see him?” said McCann.
    “Yes, I see him,” said Luciano mildly. “You’re a clever chap, Major. Such a fine, clever chap that it would give me great pleasure to kick you in the guts, eh.”
    “That goes double, you greasy little ice-cream merchant,” said McCann without rancour. “And now will you open the door?”
    Luciano must have pressed a bell, for a man appeared with suspicious promptness.
    “Unlock the door, Tony,” said Luciano, “our