Harlow leaned back on his left leg, raised his right leg and smashed the heel of his right foot against the door, just below the key-hole, from which the key had been thoughtfully and earlier removed. There was a muffled half-cough, half-scream of agony. Harlow jerked the door wide open and a short, thin dark-suited man stumbled into the room. Both hands, the right still clutching the gun, were clasped to the blood-masked shattered middle of his face. The nose was certainly broken : what had happened to cheekbones and teeth were, at the moment, a matter for the most idle conjecture.
It certainly didn’t concern Harlow. His face was entirely without pity. He swung his black-jack, none too lightly, and brought it down over the intruder’s right ear. Moaning, the man sank to his knees. Harlow took the gun from an unresisting hand and ran his free band over the man’s body. At his belt he discovered a sheath knife, which he withdrew. It was six inches long, double-edged, needle-pointed and razor-sharp. Gingerly, Harlow slipped the knife into his outside leather jacket pocket, changed his mind, switched over gun and knife, entwined his hand in the man’s black greasy hair and pulled him ruthlessly to his feet. Equally ruthlessly, he pressed the blade of the knife into his back until he was sure the tip had penetrated the skin.
Harlow said : ‘Outside.’
With the knife pressing ever deeper into his spine, Harlow’s would-be killer had little option. The two men emerged from the villa and crossed the deserted street towards the little black Renault. Harlow pushed the man into the front seat while he himself got into the back. ‘
Harlow said : ‘Drive. Police.’
When the man spoke it was, understandably, with some muffled difficulty. He said: ‘No can drive.’
Harlow reached for his black-jack and struck the man with approximately the same force as before but this time Over the left ear. The man sagged wearily against the wheel.
Harlow said: ‘Drive. Police.’
He drove, if his performance could be called driving. It was, understandably, the most erratic and harrowing journey Harlow had ever experienced. Apart from the fact that the man was barely conscious, he had to drive with one hand only, having to take his hand off the wheel to change gear, using the other hand to hold a blood-saturated handkerchief against his shattered face. Fortunately, the streets were deserted and the police station only ten minutes away.
Harlow half-pushed, half-carried the unhappy Italian into the station, deposited him not too gently on a bench, then went to the desk. Behind it were two large, burly and apparently genial policemen, both in uniform, one an inspector, the other a sergeant. They were studying with surprise and considerable interest the man on the bench who was now in a state of almost , complete collapse, holding both hands to his blood- ‘ smeared face.
Harlow said : ‘I want to lodge a complaint about this-man.’
The inspector said mildly: ‘It looks more to me that he should be lodging a complaint against you.’
Harlow said: ‘You will be requiring some identification.’ He pulled out his passport and-driving licence but the inspector waved them away without even looking at them.
‘Even to the police your face is better known than that of any criminal in Europe. But I had thought, Mr. Harlow, that your sport was motor racing, not boxing.’
The sergeant, who had been studying the Italian with some interest, touched the inspector on the arm.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said,