Cause for Alarm

17

The remainder of that night we spent by the brazier in the concrete Yugo-Slav advance frontier post into which we had succeeded in blundering. As soon as dawn broke we were removed to a guard post a kilometre away.

The Yugo-Slav officials were suspicious but polite. There was an air of informality about the proceedings that I had not expected. The men who had arrested us stood about spitting and smoking while we were questioned. It was not until later that I learned that it was only the fact that we were not Italians that interested them. Italian refugees were still, apparently, fairly common.

Zaleshoff produced his passport and was released within the hour. I was allowed to telephone the Vice-Consul at Zagreb. It took a long time to get the call through, and they gave us coffee while we waited in front of the guardroom stove; but by eleven o’clock matters had been satisfactorily arranged and, on the understanding that we reported to the police immediately on our arrival there, we were permitted to proceed to Zagreb. That night, for the first time in five days, I slept in a bed.

The following morning, clad in a brand new Yugo-Slav suit and armed with an identity paper from the Consul, I travelled with Zaleshoff to Belgrade. The luxury of being able to face a ticket collector without flinching was delicious. I was extraordinarily excited and pleased with myself. I had telephoned to Claire, explained that I had had to leave Italy hurriedly (I did not say just how hurriedly) to escape a charge of bribery over a Spartacus contract, and promised to be home within the week. She had refrained manfully from asking for details. I had told Zaleshoff of the fact with some pride.

He had grinned. “If I were you, Marlow, I’d get busy as soon as I got to London. If you don’t look sharp and marry her, some other guy will.”

“That’s precisely what I’d been thinking.”

I had also telephoned Wolverhampton. Mr. Fitch had not been so accommodating in the matter of details. News of the warrant for my arrest had reached Spartacus via the British authorities. Bombarded with quesions, I had said that I had been staying with friends waiting for the thing to blow over, that I was now safe and sound, and that I would get to Wolverhampton as soon as possible. At that point the operator had intervened with the news that I had been talking for six minutes. I had suggested quickly that Umberto be empowered to carry on temporarily in Milan and hung up. I should, I reflected, have two months’ salary to come from Spartacus.

But one thing that Fitch had said troubled me. He had raised the question of the Italian Government starting extradition proceedings. I mentioned it to Zaleshoff.

He laughed. “Extradition? Not a chance. Even if they knew you were here they wouldn’t do anything about it. For one thing they’d know that it was too late to prevent your reaching Vagas. For another, they’d have to answer too many questions themselves to make it worth their while. What about that passport photograph they put in the paper? Supposing the British authorities wanted to know how they got it. No, I guess the only one they’ll take it out of is Bellinetti. I wouldn’t be in that bird’s shoes for a good deal.”

He had evidently been in touch with Tamara, for she was waiting for us at the Belgrade station. They kissed each other’s hands. It was rather touching. She smiled at me.

“You’re looking well, Mr. Marlow.”

“He’s done a lot of walking,” remarked Zaleshoff; “there’s nothing like walking for getting you fit.” He grasped her arm. “Where’s Vagas? Have you found him yet?”

“Yes. His house is shut up, but I put Fedor on to watch it. He went there yesterday and came out forty minutes later with a suitcase. Fedor followed him to the Hotel Amerika. He’s got a suite there on the second floor. Number two hundred and ten.”

“Good.” I saw his eyes flicker towards me.

“Fedor?” I said. “That sounds like a good old American name.” But he ignored the remark.

“Where are we staying?”

“I’ve taken rooms at the Acacia for us and one for Mr. Marlow at the Amerika-on the second floor.”

“Let’s go to the Acacia first.”

At the Hotel Acacia we talked for half an hour. Or, rather, Zaleshoff talked and I nodded. Tamara had left us to ourselves, but presently she appeared with a large and expensive-looking suitcase containing a pair of pyjamas, a tooth brush and toilet necessities, and a number of secondhand books to add weight to it. Towards six o’clock I put the case into a taxi and was driven to the Hotel Amerika.

As I was registering I glanced at the key rack and saw that the key of number two hundred and ten was hanging there. Vagas was out. I went up to my room, deposited my hat, unpacked the sponge bag and the pyjamas and then descended to the lounge. There I selected a table from which I could see across the foyer to the main entrance, ordered a drink and sat down to wait.

He would, I thought, be returning to the hotel to change his clothes for the evening, and I was right. I had just finished my second drink when I saw him come through the revolving doors, collect his key and walk towards the lift. I put my drink down quickly and dashed for the stairs. I just had time to reach the lift entrance on the second floor and press the button as if to summon the lift, when the doors opened.

Vagas stepped out and we met face to face.

His eyebrows went up; but as evident as his surprise was his suspicion. I affected amazement and delight. Before he could say a word I seized his hand and wrung it heartily.

“General Vagas! the very man I’ve been looking for!”

“Mr. Marlow! this is most unexpected.”

“Very unexpected,” I said warmly. “I’ve been wondering all the afternoon where I could find you. I looked up your address in the directory, but your place was shut up. I’d given it up as hopeless. And all the time, we were on the same floor in the same hotel!”

He smiled faintly. “Well, now that you have found me, Mr. Marlow, perhaps you will join me in a drink.”

“I should be delighted. This is remarkable,” I babbled enthusiastically as we walked along the corridor. “When I found your place empty, I naturally thought that you must be away.”

His lips still smiling, he listened. I could almost feel his suspicion of me. Inside the room, he went to a cupboard and got out some glasses and two bottles.

“When did you arrive, Mr. Marlow? Brandy and Evian?”

“Thank you. This afternoon after lunch.”

“From Italy.”

But Zaleshoff had coached me carefully. “No, from Vienna.” I laughed. “That little business transaction of ours did not end very happily, did it, General? You know, I was in Naples at the time, and if my assistant had not telephoned me when I was in Rome and warned me, I really believe they would have arrested me when I got back. Naturally, my Consul would have put that right quick enough, but I thought that I had better play for safety. I managed to get a boat for Villefranche. I tried to telephone you in Milan, but your manservant told me that you had left.” I delivered a long tirade against the interference of the Italian police in private business matters.

He listened politely. “I understand that the Commendatore was arrested. Most unfortunate. It was reported in the papers. By the way, have you seen the Italian papers lately, Mr. Marlow?”

“No. Why?”

“I thought you might have seen the reports of the case. Most interesting.”

I wondered if he knew that the Italian papers had been quite silent on the subject of the Commendatore. I found out soon that he did know it.

He handed me a glass and bent down to fill his own.

“Mr. Marlow,” he said over his shoulder, “I am most curious to know just why you came to Belgrade instead of returning to England and why you were so anxious to see me.”

I registered astonishment. “You don’t mean to say that you’ve forgotten about those questions you asked me in your letter? I took quite a lot of trouble over them, and then I did not have time to write to you before I left for Naples. After that, as I told you, I found that you’d left Milan. I…”

His hand with the bottle of Evian in it had been moving towards his glass. Suddenly it stopped. He straightened his back.

“One moment, Mr. Marlow. Am I to understand that you had actually secured that information before you left Italy?”

“You are, General.” I grinned. “With a five thousand lire bonus at the end of it, can you blame me for taking a little holiday trip to Belgrade. I don’t suppose that Spartacus will be very pleased with me over this bribery business. It’s not my fault, of course. But the Italians may rat on that contract. I shall probably be glad of fifty pounds.”

For a moment or two he looked at me in silence. Then:

“You have the information with you, Mr. Marlow?”

I smiled and tapped my forehead. “In here, General.” I had, I hoped, the air of a cunning, stupid man who knows that he has the whip-hand and is determined to use it.

He contemplated me thoughtfully. His eyes were very dangerous, and I could feel my assumed confidence oozing away, leaving only a wooden empty smile behind it. Then he put his hand in his breast pocket and drew out a wallet. Slowly he counted out five mille notes and tossed them on to the table in front of me.

“Well, Mr. Marlow?”

I repeated the second part of Zaleshoff’s lesson and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes gleam with interest. He went to a bureau, drew out a piece of paper and told me to repeat what I had said. I did so. He jotted down a note or two. At last he stood up again.

“I am glad to state, Mr. Marlow, that this information has the appearance of accuracy and may be of use to us. I think I should remind you, however, that this transaction must be our last. I should be quite unable to persuade my superiors that there is any reason for continuing to pay your salary now that you are no longer persona grata in Italy. You understand that?”

“Oh yes, General.” I hesitated and looked at him rather furtively. “With regard to the matter we discussed in the car that night, I should like some assurance that the information concerning my employers’ business will not be used in any way… er… prejudicial.”

A glint of amusement appeared for an instant in his eyes; but he assured me gravely enough that I need have no fears.

“Can I persuade you to have dinner with me, Mr. Marlow?” he added.

“I should like to, General, but I am leaving for London in the morning and I have some letters to write. I feel sure you will excuse me.”

It was feeble enough as an excuse, but he nodded. Clearly, he had not expected me to accept.

“A pity. However”-he held out his hand-“ bon voyage, Mr. Marlow, and thank you. My wife will be sorry that she missed you.”

I almost jumped. Was it possible that the man did not know of his wife’s death? Then I realised that the statement was a trap. I had said that I had not seen the Italian papers. I ought not to know that his wife was dead, that she had killed herself. He was grasping my hand, and I was afraid for a moment that he might have felt the involuntary contraction of my muscles. That was, of course, why he had taken my hand before he had mentioned his wife.

I managed to keep my voice level. “Please convey my respects to Madame Vagas.”

Then a curious thing happened. Before this, I had not seen him in the daylight. His maquillage was not as heavy as that which he wore at night. Now, as his cheeks creased momentarily into the first genuine smile I had seen on his face, I saw that beneath the paint his face was pock-marked.

The smile was gone; but when he spoke his voice held laughter, the laughter of a man who is enjoying a good joke.

“I shall do my best to convey your respects to my wife, Mr. Marlow,” he said deliberately; “I shall make a point of doing so next time I see her. A rivederci.”

I fumbled with the door-knob. I was feeling slightly sick.

“Good night, General.”

As the door shut behind me I heard him laugh.

I got my hat from my room and went downstairs on my way to report to Zaleshoff. I was not sure that I had not been made a fool of. Then, as I stopped by the desk to leave my key, I heard something which made me change my mind. The telephone stood adjacent to the clerk’s desk and I heard the operator repeat the word “Berlin” twice and then “ danke.” Someone in the hotel was putting a call through to Berlin.

I turned to the clerk.

“I wonder if that Berlin call would be for me,” I said in Italian.

“What name, Signore?”

“Marlow.”

He turned to the operator and said something to her in German. I did not understand her actual reply, but two things I did understand. One was her impatient shake of the head, the other was the name “Herr Vagas.” That was enough.

“No, Signore,” said the clerk; “it is not for you.”

The following morning Zaleshoff and Tamara saw me off on the Paris train.

We were standing on the platform with about two minutes to go when I remembered something that I had forgotten to ask him.

“Zaleshoff, what did you mean the other morning when you said that you were more worried by what that paper didn’t print than what it did?”

It was Tamara who answered. “He was afraid that they might have detained me. He’s always afraid for me.”

“I see.” I hesitated. Then: “Look here, I’ve got a finicking sort of mind. Do you mind telling me exactly what you did with those queer files of yours. You surely didn’t leave them for the police to find and I really can’t see how you could burn such a mass of paper without attracting attention.”

They looked uncomfortable.

“Well,” said Zaleshoff airily, “those were Saponi’s old files.”

“But what about those cards that…” I stopped. I was beginning to understand. “I suppose,” I went on slowly, “that it wouldn’t be that the two cards I saw, Ferning’s and Vagas’, were the only two cards there were?”

For once Zaleshoff had nothing to say. I nodded grimly. “I see.”

Just then the whistle blew and I climbed into the train. They were both standing on the platform, looking up at me. The girl was smiling, but Zaleshoff’s jaw was stuck out defiantly. I wanted suddenly to laugh at him. The train began to move.

I leaned down.

“Don’t forget to send me a postcard from Moscow.”

They had begun to walk along by the side of the train.

Suddenly he grinned. “I will,” he called back; “that is, if I ever get around to the place.”

And then, as the train gathered speed, he began to run. Almost immediately he cannoned into a porter’s trolley; but he scrambled to his feet again and ran on. When I last saw him he was standing on the end of the platform waving a bright red handkerchief after me. No, you could not help liking Zaleshoff.

I spent two days with Claire before I went up to Wolverhampton.

When I had arrived, there had been a letter waiting for me. It was from Hallett. In it were the five pounds which he had borrowed from me just before I had left for Italy and, more important, the offer of a job under him with his new employers. Having telephoned my grateful acceptance, I travelled north armed.

I saw Fitch first. He greeted me with gloomy enthusiasm.

“The bottom’s out of the export market,” he said; “and, of course, just as we’d got hold of a really good man to handle the Milan end, this had to happen. It beats me, Marlow. We’ve been using that special appropriation ever since we started over there. Ferning never had any trouble. Some new broom, I expect. We were pretty worried about you. Did you have any trouble getting out?”

“Well, it was a bit awkward because they had my passport. But I made for the Yugo-Slav side and sneaked out across the frontier.”

“And you heard nothing about it in Yugo-Slavia, I gather. Well, all’s well that ends well, I suppose. But where we stand now, I don’t know. I don’t see how the ice-creamers could wriggle out of their contracts with us even if they wanted to. Pelcher’s going over in a few days to straighten things out. Everyone here is doing well except the export department,” he went on sombrely; “we’ve started supplying the shadow factories. Pelcher’s very pleased.”

“What does he think about this Milan business?”

“He says that it’s the fortune of war. I don’t quite know what he means, but he’s stuck that label on to it, so there we are. You’ll find him very cheerful. Apart from the shadow factories, he’s had a spirit level let into the head of his new driver, and reckons that it’s going to bring his handicap down to eighteen. He thinks it’ll be worth nearly a stroke a hole to him; but, as I told him, even if St. Andrew’s would permit it, it’s not the club head but the ball that he ought to keep his eyes on. He’ll never make a golfer.”

Soon the message came that Mr. Pelcher was disengaged and would see me.

His reception of me was overwhelming. He pressed me into a chair, ordered tea, and gave me a cigar. Then he sat back, tugging at his collar and beaming while I repeated once more the prepared version of my experiences.

“Well, Mr. Marlow,” he said breezily when I had finished, “I must congratulate you on extricating yourself from a very difficult position with skill and discretion. Frankly, we were a little worried until we heard from you; but, as I said to Fitch, I had considerable faith in your tact. There was never, I felt, any real cause for alarm.”

“It is very kind of you to say so.”

“And now,” he went on, “we must think of the future. It is out of the question for you to return to Italy.”

“Utterly, I am afraid.”

“Ah well-the fortune of war, you know.” He tugged at his collar. “Let me see now. Fitch badly needs an assistant and I dare say…”

“One moment, Mr. Pelcher,” I interrupted. “I think I should tell you now that I have been offered and have accepted the post of production engineer to one of the Cator amp; Bliss branch factories. Perhaps I should have told you before. I am afraid that I assumed…”

“That we should let you down?” He looked hurt, but I could see the relief in his eyes.

“Not exactly that, Sir; but I have come to the conclusion that I am far more suited to a works job.”

“Once an engineer always an engineer, eh? Well, I can sympathise with that.” For a moment I thought I saw a shadow cross his face; but that was, no doubt, my imagination. He stood up. “Well, my boy, we shall be sorry to lose you so soon, but, of course, we can’t stand in your way. And besides,” he added jovially, “we’ve just started supplying S2 machines to Cator amp; Bliss. You won’t be losing touch with us altogether, eh?”

“It’s very good of you to put it like that.”

“Nonsense, my dear chap! You’ll fix the financial details with Fitch, of course. You might spend some of your remaining time with us making him familiar with the Milan details so that he can give me a report. Meanwhile”-he held out his hand-“let me wish you the very best of luck.” We shook hands warmly. I thanked him again. We walked towards the door.

“By the way,” he said suddenly, “I’d like to have your technical opinion on my new driver. Fitch is sceptical; but then you know what these scratch golfers are. You don’t play, so I think you’ll see the beauty of the idea.”

I had dinner with Fitch. It was dark when I left Wolverhampton. I shared a compartment with a well-dressed, beefy man who sat under an enormous suitcase perched rather precariously on the rack. Tied to the handle was a travel agency label. For a while he read a Birmingham paper. I looked out of the window. Then, in the distance, I saw the glow of blast furnaces.

The paper rustled. “Nice to see them working like that again, isn’t it?” he remarked.

“Yes, very.”

“Are you a Birmingham man?”

“No.”

“We’re not doing so badly up here. Can’t turn the stuff out fast enough.”

“That must be very heartening.”

“Yes. I’m off on a tour, through Italy. First class all the way after London, and all tips included in the ticket. No need to worry about the lingo either.”

“It sounds good.”

“I was there for a day or two last Easter. It’s a fine place for a holiday is Italy. Now that Mussolini’s on the job, the trains run nearly as good as ours. You ought to try it.”

I settled back in my corner. I was feeling tired.

“I’m afraid,” I said, “that Italy would be a little too hot for me.”

He nodded understandingly. “Yes, there are some people who can’t stand the heat. My late wife was like that. Either you can stand it or you can’t. It’s just the way you’re made, I always say.”