Cause for Alarm

6

At half-past eight the following evening, I presented myself at the Opera House.

Madame Vagas’ greeting was, I thought, a trifle cold.

She was a thin, imposing woman with greying black hair, small haggard eyes and an air of fighting off an almost overpowering lassitude. There was a hint of strain at the corners of her mouth, and the movements of her hands were sudden and awkward, as though she were consciously directing their activities.

It was in the ante-room of his box that the General introduced me to her. “My wife, Mr. Marlow,” he said. I had bowed and now we stood looking at one another while a waiter spread caviar and opened a bottle of Asti Spumante.

She examined me for a moment or two. Then: “Are you sympathetic to the ballet, signor Marlow?”

She spoke a thick, guttural Italian. The words seemed to be forced from her lips. I was irresistibly reminded of the involuntary grunt of a person hit in the solar plexus.

The General replied for me.

“Signor Marlow is a devotee, Elsa, my dear. Otherwise I should not have asked him to join us here.” His tone was smooth enough, but I thought he smiled at her a little malignantly. In the subdued yellow light of the ante-room, his make-up was less obtrusive than when I had first seen him; but the points of his dress collar, where they touched the neck, were already smeared with grease and sun-tan powder. He transferred the smile to me. “How are you finding Milan, signor Marlow?”

“I can’t say that I’ve seen anything of it, General. I’ve been away in Genoa for the last few days. I only returned yesterday.”

“So? A glass of champagne?”

“Thank you.”

“You must have found Genoa very dull.” He turned to his wife. “Elsa, my dear, you remember that we found Genoa unspeakable?”

She took her glass of Asti. “That is the place with the large cemetery, isn’t it, signor Marlow?” Her eyes surveyed me. I had a feeling that my tie must be crooked. It was with difficulty that I prevented myself from fingering it.

“I was told so. The Genoese seem very proud of their cemetery.”

Vagas laughed politely. “I don’t suppose signor Marlow had much time for cemeteries. Let me see,” he added, “poor Ferning used to mention the Grigori-Sforza works at Genoa. I suppose, by any chance, you…?”

“Yes, it was the Grigori-Sforza works that I visited.”

He turned suddenly and spoke to Madame Vagas in a language that sounded like German. “I must apologise,” he went on to me; “I was just explaining to my wife that you are Mr. Ferning’s successor.” He put his glass down. “I think the overture is nearly finished. Shall we go in?”

The first ballet was Lac des Cygnes. From where I sat Vagas’ head was sharply outlined against the glare of the stage. Almost against my will my eyes kept wandering from the tremulous flutterings of the corps de ballet to watch his face. With the rise of the curtain his expression had changed. His lips had parted slightly, and he was breathing slowly and deeply. Every now and again he would swallow and clear his throat. It was like watching a man asleep. There was about him the same quality of unawareness, of preoccupation with dreams. Beyond him, in the shadows, I could see Madame Vagas, her face a smudge of grey against the curtains of the box, her body motionless. I looked down into the house upon the rows of white, still faces. It was as if they belonged to the dead, and only the figures on the stage were alive. A green light flickered in the wings and the Prince staggered back miming dread and horror, his body taut, his ridiculous crossbow jerking with the staccato movements of his arms. I saw the General raise a handkerchief and dab his lips. Madame Vagas yawned. The faces below did not move. The ballet approached its climax. At last the curtain fell. There was a roar of applause. The curtain rose, fell, rose again. More bows. Bouquets were carried on to the stage. The Prince kissed his hands to the Swan. The conductor took a bow. The curtain fell. The applause died away into a hum of conversation as the house lights went up.

The General sighed and put his monocle back in his eye.

“There is only one Fokine,” he said. “Did it please you, Mr. Marlow?”

“Very much.”

“The best is yet to come. Shall we smoke. Are you coming, Elsa, my dear?”

She shook her head slowly. “I think that the Contessa Perugia is on her way here.”

He frowned. “Please make my excuses to the lady. I think we might walk round to the cigar stall, Mr. Marlow.”

We made our way to the top of the main staircase. The place was packed. I could hear German, French and Spanish being spoken in my immediate vicinity. I could see a Hindu, a Chinese, two Japanese and a grey-faced man wearing a tarboosh.

“You see, Mr. Marlow,” murmured the General in my ear, “at La Scala, ballet recognises no frontiers.” He inclined his head gracefully but repressively to a man with a pointed white beard who seemed about to accost us, and led the way to the cigar stall.

“That man,” he explained, “is a member of a drug syndicate. Very charming, but his confidences are apt to be embarrassing. A match, Mr. Marlow?”

But I was no longer paying any attention to him. Weaving their way towards us through the crowd were a man and a woman. I gaped at them. The woman was young, almost a girl, and she was beautiful. It was a curious, nearly masculine beauty. The cheek-bones were high and drew the flesh smoothly away from the red lips in a way which gave her an oddly impassive expression. Her hair gleamed a very dark brown. Her hands were exquisite. Yet it was not so much she who had attracted my attention as the fact that beside her, his hand on her elbow and looking in his evening clothes more like a prize-fighter than ever, was Zaleshoff.

He saw me at the same moment that I saw him. Our eyes met. I prepared for a greeting. But, without a flicker of recognition in his eyes, he looked straight through me. Another second and he was past. I recovered myself quickly.

“I beg your pardon, General.”

He smiled and struck another match.

“Don’t apologise, Mr. Marlow. She is, I agree, quite lovely here.”

“Here?”

“A common Slav type, Mr. Marlow. In Belgrade you could take your choice. The man with her is her brother. Haven’t you seen them before?”

“No.”

He attended to his cigar. “The man is called Zaleshoff, Andreas Prokovitch Zaleshoff. Her name is Tamara Prokovna. Russian, of course; but they were both, I believe, brought up in the United States. I’m afraid,” he added gravely, “that I cannot recommend you to pursue your interest in the lady. The man is an agent of the Soviet Government, and it is highly probable that his sister is also.”

I managed a light laugh.

“That sounds very sensational, General. But I assure you that I hadn’t the least intention of pursuing my interest. I have a fiancee in England.” The words sounded to me appallingly pompous and unreal, but he nodded as if satisfied.

“A foreigner in Italy,” he said, “does well to be discreet. Excuse me.”

To my relief, he turned aside to speak to some people who were passing. I had time to collect myself. Either Vagas was making a clumsy effort to impress me or I was moving in rather deeper waters than I had thought. What was it Zaleshoff had said? “Fortunately, I’ve got other contacts.” But it was ridiculous. In any case, I was wishing very earnestly that I had not come. I passed in quick review the possible excuses I might make for leaving at the next interval. I might plead illness, or a forgotten business engagement. I might…

Vagas touched me on the arm.

“I want you to meet the signora Bernabo, Mr. Marlow.” He turned to the fat, shrill-voiced woman by his side. “ Le voglio presentare il signor Marlow, Signora.”

“ Fortunatissimo, Signora.”

“ Fortunatissimo, Signore.”

“ E Commendatore Bernabo.” He indicated a moustachioed gentleman wearing the insignia of the Ordine della Corona d’Italia.

“ Fortunatissimo, Commendatore ”

There was a great deal of hand shaking. The ballet was discussed. Signora Bernabo breathed heavily in the background.

“I only come here,” she announced after a while, “to see the gowns.”

The Commendatore laughed heartily and twirled his moustaches. To my surprise, Vagas laughed too. Later, however, as we were returning to the box, I was given an explanation for this.

“That woman,” he said viciously, “is an imbecile, a cretin. Bernabo himself, however, is in the purchasing section of the Ordnance Department, and an important man. I wouldn’t have bored you with them, but I thought you might find him useful. I mentioned your business to him. You need have no qualms about pursuing the acquaintance. He will not rebuff you. It might be worth your while to cultivate him. A little dinner would be sufficient to begin with. The rest will follow naturally.”

I did not need to ask what “the rest” consisted of. My experience at Genoa had taught me something.

“It’s very good of you, General.”

“Not at all.” He paused for a split second and glanced at me. “There are probably all sorts of ways in which I can help you, Mr. Marlow.”

I thanked him again. We had reached the box.

“Milan,” he said as we went in, “is a city in which it is wise to have good friends. By the way, I suggest that we leave after the next ballet. The last on the programme to-night is a local product, and will, I fear, be quite dreadful.”

“Then I should prefer to leave.”

“I anticipated that you might. I have ordered supper for ten o’clock.”

It was actually after ten o’clock when eventually we left La Scala for the Corso di Porta Nuova.

It was a small house; but the interior was fantastically grandiose. It was decorated in a sort of baroque-Gothic manner with huge swagged hangings of dark red velvet, heavy Cinquecento furniture and painted walls. The lighting was by candelabra. Except for a faint smell of incense in the air, the effect was fantastically like that of a piece of ballet decor. A pale, dainty-footed young manservant in blood-red satin knee-breeches helped the illusion considerably.

He tripped forward, took our coats and was gliding away into the shadow of the stairs when Madame Vagas called after him.

“Ricciardo.”

He stopped with evident reluctance. “Signora?”

“You have been burning incense again.”

He pouted. “Only a little, Signora.”

Her voice suddenly became shrill. “You are not to burn it, you understand? You are not to burn it.”

Ricciardo’s lip trembled. He was, it was clear, about to burst into tears.

“My dear Elsa,” murmured the General repressively, “we have a guest.” He raised his voice. “Ricciardo, come here.”

The youth advanced a few steps. “ Si, Eccellenza.”

“Go and put some colour on your cheeks and then serve supper. And remember that there must be no flowers on the table.”

“ Si, Eccellenza.” He flashed a smile at us, bowed low and retreated.

The General turned to me. “I insist on the servants looking decorative.” He fluttered a hand towards the walls. “Do you like it, Mr. Marlow? The Loves of Mejnoun and Leilah. I had it copied from some tapestries.”

“Yes, signor Marlow,” echoed Madame Vagas with a thin, malicious smile; “do you like it?”

“It is charming.”

“Charming!” She repeated the word with polite derision. “You may be right.”

There was no doubt that I had said the wrong thing. I was feeling distinctly embarrassed.

“My wife,” said Vagas, “detests the place.”

“My husband, signor Marlow, has a weakness for the macabre.”

It was said most amiably. Both of them were smiling at me; but the atmosphere was suddenly deadly with hatred. More than ever I wished that I had not come. There was, I knew, something inexpressibly ugly about the two Vagas. They were both grotesque, as grotesque as their house and as their manservant.

Vagas took my arm.

“Come, my friend; supper is waiting.”

It was served in an alcove leading off the main room. The glass was exquisite, the china was beautiful, the dishes were perfectly presented. The General and I drank Tokay. Madame Vagas sipped a glass of Evian water. To my relief, for I had nothing to say, the General monopolised the conversation with a monologue on the subject of the ballet.

“I feel sure,” said Madame Vagas after a while, “that signor Marlow is not so interested in the ballet.”

The General raised his eyebrows. “My dear Elsa, I was forgetting. I am so sorry, Mr. Marlow.”

I mumbled my protest.

“You must forgive me, Mr. Marlow,” he went on; “the ballet interests me enormously. It is, I believe, the final expression of a disintegrating society. The idea of the dance, you know, and the preparation for death have been inseparable since the human animal first crept through the prim?val forest. Ballet is merely a new rationalisation of society’s instinctive movement towards self-destruction. A dance of death for the Gadarene swine. It has always been so. Catherine de’ Medici’s musician, Baltazarini, invented the ballet as we know it. It has remained the prophet of destruction. In the years before nineteen-fourteen it drew larger audiences than ever before. In the early nineteen-twenties, when Diaghilev was doing his best work, it became a more esoteric pleasure. Now it is popular again. If I never read a newspaper, Mr. Marlow, one evening at the ballet would tell me that once again society is preparing for death.”

Madame Vagas rose. “I think that, if signor Marlow will excuse me, I shall go to bed.”

His lips twisted. “You know, my dear Elsa, that you never sleep.”

“I am afraid,” I said quickly, “that I have stayed too long.”

“Not at all, Signore. It is very early. My husband will tell you that I invariably retire early.”

“Good night and thank you, Madame.”

“It has been a pleasure to meet you, Signore. Good night.”

She held out her hand.

Uncertain whether I was supposed to shake or kiss it, I compromised by touching it and bowing.

The next moment I felt a small piece of paper being pressed firmly into the palm of my hand. My fingers closed on it. She withdrew her hand and went without looking at me again.

The General sighed.

“I must apologise, Mr. Marlow. My wife is a little unwell at the moment. A nervous complaint. Any talk of death depresses her.”

I transferred the piece of paper to my waistcoat pocket.

“I am sorry to hear that.”

Ricciardo hovered in the background.

“You may leave the coffee and brandy in the next room, Ricciardo. Then go to bed.”

“ Si, Eccellenza.”

We moved into the adjoining room. A wood fire burning in the grate sent long shadows leaping over the dark hangings. One of the candles was guttering in its wax. I wanted badly to leave. I was tired. The General and his house were getting on my nerves. I was acutely conscious of the piece of paper in my pocket. It was possible that the General had seen me take it. In that case…

“Brandy, Mr. Marlow?”

“Thank you.”

It was obviously a note of some sort. What on earth…

“A cigarette, Mr. Marlow?”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll find that chair comfortable.”

“Thank you.”

He sat down facing me so that his face was in the shadow while mine was lit by the fire. It was an old trick, but it did not help me to feel any more at my ease.

He stretched himself luxuriously. “I don’t think, Mr. Marlow, that the chairs at the Hotel Parigi are quite as comfortable as this, are they?”

“No, not quite.”

“And yet you contemplate moving to even less comfortable surroundings?”

“I don’t care for living in hotels.”

“No, of course not. Mr. Ferning had the same taste in the matter of living. But I seem to remember your saying that an apartment such as his would be too expensive.”

“I shall find something less expensive.”

“And less comfortable, I am afraid.” His cigarette glowed. He threw back his head and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. His head dropped again. Suddenly he leaned forward.

“May I be frank, Mr. Marlow?”

Now it was coming! I was surprised to find that my heart had begun to thump against my ribs. It was stupid of me, craven if you like, but I was afraid. I had to steady my voice, to instil into it a tone of faint surprise.

“By all means, General.”

“My reasons for calling upon you the other evening were not altogether social.”

I emitted a non-committal “I see.”

“I should like, Mr. Marlow,” he went on, “to discuss some business with you.”

“I am always ready to discuss business on behalf of my company, General.”

“Yes, quite so.” He paused. “But this is a rather more personal matter, you understand. I am no business man”-his hand fluttered contemptuously-“but I have my interests. You mentioned the matter of an apartment. Mr. Ferning, I remember, was in much the same position as yourself. It was a simple question of money. Nothing more. I was able to introduce him to some private business that provided him with an answer. I can do the same for you, Mr. Marlow.”

I muttered something about its being very good of him.

“Not at all, my friend. It is a question of mutual advantage”-he seemed to like the phrase for he repeated it-“a question of mutual advantage. More, this business is in no way incompatible with the interests of your English employers. That fact is certain. Mr. Ferning was the soul of probity in such matters. He was a man with a very strict sense of honour and a very high conception of his patriotic duty.”

I could not quite see where this was leading but I made no comment.

He cleared his throat. “That, however, is by the way. The simple fact is, Mr. Marlow, that I happen to be in touch with certain persons who are prepared to pay for technical assistance such as you are in a position to give them.”

“Technical assistance?”

“To be more precise: technical information of a comparatively specialised nature. I should add”-he hesitated impressively-“that the opportunity I am giving you, Mr. Marlow, is one both of enriching yourself and of serving your country.”

“I’m afraid that I don’t understand.”

“Let me explain.” His voice had become soft and persuasive. “You, Mr. Marlow, are selling a special sort of machine to Italian engineering firms. You are doing so under the?gis and with the full approval of the Italian Government. These machines are designed for one single purpose, the making of shells. Very well. That is business. Good. But has it occurred to you, my friend, that these beautiful machines you are supplying, these very efficient machines, are being used to make shells which may one day burst among the bodies of your own countrymen? Have you considered the matter in that light?”

I stirred. “I have considered the point. But it is no business of mine. I am concerned with selling machine tools. I am merely the agent. I did not create the situation. The responsibility for it is not mine. There is a job to be done. If I do not do it, then someone else will.”

“Quite so. The responsibility for the situation is not yours. As far as these business transactions are concerned, you are a purely impersonal agent whose task it is to make profits for the firm of Spartacus.”

“I am glad you see the point.”

“I do more than see the point, Mr. Marlow,” he said enthusiastically. “I insist upon it. It is the very impersonality of your job that enables me to make this proposal to you. It is that very fact that places it apart from the interests of Messrs. Spartacus.”

My attack of nerves had passed. I was feeling slightly irritable.

“Perhaps, General, if I knew the nature of your proposal I could judge for myself.”

“I wish you to do so,” he said promptly. “I wish you to do so. I wish you to judge the matter from a purely impersonal standpoint, without emotion, calmly.” He drew a deep breath. “Let me put the situation to you hypothetically. Let us suppose for the moment that England was at war with Germany. England’s ally would be France. Now let us suppose that you, an Englishman, were in possession of certain information about Germany which would be of very considerable value to your country’s ally. What would you do? Would you decide that, as the information was of no immediate value to England, you would keep it to yourself? Or would you give the information to France who might use it against your common enemy? I think you would almost certainly give that information to France. Don’t you agree?”

By now I was thoroughly on my guard. “Under those purely hypothetical circumstances,” I said carefully, “I probably should.”

“Then,” he said gravely, “we are in perfect sympathy. That is what I should do. However,” he went on blandly, “that is only a hypothetical case. Naturally, you are more interested in facts than fancies.”

“Naturally.”

He leaned forward so that his face came into the light. “Then let us get to facts.” His voice had lost its effeminacy. It had become hard, almost peremptory. For the first time I was reminded that the word “General” was not merely a mode of address.

“Mr. Marlow, you are engaged in selling shell-production machinery to Italy. I, as I have already told you, am a Yugo-Slav. I am empowered to say that my Government would be interested in receiving from you details of all your transactions with Italian firms, and would be prepared to recognise your personal efforts in the matter with a retaining fee of at least two thousand lire a month. The details you would be asked to furnish would be of the simplest. You would, as I have explained, be expected to do nothing calculated to prejudice the interests of your employers. All we should require would be the details of the machines supplied; their nature, their production capabilities and their destination. Nothing more.”

“And you are prepared,” I said steadily, “to pay two thousand lire a month for just that? It seems rather a lot of money for so small a service, General Vagas.”

He made an impatient gesture. “What might seem unimportant to you, Mr. Marlow, might be of great value to a military intelligence department. That is because you know nothing of such matters. It is of vital importance to the military and naval authorities of every power to know precisely the potential aggressive and defensive capabilities of every other power. That is a commonplace. It is a recognised need. Every country appoints military and naval attaches to its embassies and legations abroad. The collection of information is their official function. But consider this, Mr. Marlow. Where do these attaches obtain their information? Where else but from the very persons whose business it is to conceal it? The obtaining of accurate military intelligence concerning the resources of a possible enemy is a routine precaution essential to national security. Are we to accept what that possible enemy chooses to tell our attaches officially? Obviously that is absurd. We must make other arrangements. We must buy the information where we can. That is all. You can depend upon it, Mr. Marlow, that we only buy what we need.”

I said nothing. He went on.

“Again, should there still be any doubt in your mind as to the propriety of your supplying a third party with this very harmless information, let me draw your attention to this fact. During the past nine months Messrs. Spartacus have enjoyed steadily increasing prosperity in this country. They have received more orders from Italy than ever before. Yet, until Mr. Ferning’s unfortunate accident, we were in regular receipt of the information I am asking you for now. Look at it another way. If I cared to employ experienced agents for the purpose, I could secure this information quite independently. We could secure it, but it would simply be less convenient to do so by those means and more expensive. You see the idea? You would be paid, in effect, not for supplying us with a series of comparatively commonplace facts, but for saving us the trouble and expense of obtaining them elsewhere. You see, Mr. Marlow? Tell me frankly what you think.”

I was silent. A log settled down in the grate. I could hear a clock ticking. So that was it. That was the proposition that Zaleshoff had wanted me to hear, the proposition that he thought might interest me.

“Well, Mr. Marlow?”

“This is a very unusual proposition, General,” I said stupidly.

“Not so unusual as you might think, Mr. Marlow,” he said calmly. “But let me assure you that there is nothing in it to which even the most sensitive conscience could object. It would be a simple matter of business, a confidential routine arrangement between two men of honour.”

I stood up. “Yes, I quite see that. I take it, then, that you would have no objection to my referring the proposal to Mr. Pelcher, my managing director, for sanction to discuss the matter further with you?”

He fingered his lower lip. “I could scarcely counsel that course, Mr. Marlow. While any private arrangement we made together would be no concern of your company, to put the matter on an official footing would certainly embarrass your director. It would involve for him a question of honour. Rightly or wrongly, he would feel that he had an obligation of discretion to fulfil as far as his clients were concerned.”

“And you don’t think that I, as a representative of the Spartacus company, have a similar obligation?”

“As you pointed out yourself, Mr. Marlow, your position is, in a sense, impersonal. You accept no responsibility for the nature of your company’s activities. You do not, rightly, permit instincts of loyalty to your country to interfere with business. Why should you allow a vague sense of loyalty to your company to confuse your mind?”

“My company purchases my loyalty by paying me to represent it.”

“I see. And your country does not pay you.” There was no mistaking the sneer in his voice. I felt myself losing my temper.

“I’m afraid that I cannot accept your interpretation of the circumstances. I have only your word for it that any question of loyalty to my country does actually arise.”

“Do you doubt my word, Mr. Marlow?”

“No, but I think you may be a trifle prejudiced.”

“Your predecessor, Mr. Ferning, did not think so.”

“Possibly not.” I glanced at my watch. “I think, General, that I ought to be going. It is past midnight and I have to be up early. Thank you for a very pleasant evening.”

He got to his feet.

“Another brandy before you go?”

“Thank you, no.”

“As you please. With regard to this matter of business, Mr. Marlow.” He rested his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t decide too hastily. Think it over. Naturally, I don’t want you to do anything that causes you the least uneasiness. But I think you will see that I am right.”

The candlelight was reflected for an instant in his monocle. His hand patted my shoulder paternally. I wanted to shake it off.

“Good night, General.”

“Good night, Mr. Marlow. You can always reach me by telephone here. You have my number. I shall look forward to a call from you-whatever you finally decide.”

“I think I can safely tell you now that…”

He held up his hand. “Not now, please, Mr. Marlow. Think it over first. Wait a few days. Er-your coat will be in the hall.”

It was with profound relief that I heard the door close behind me. After the hot, incense-laden atmosphere of the General’s fantastic house, the cold, damp night-air was invigorating. And I had plenty to think about as I walked back to the hotel.

Several things were now explained. Ferning’s apartment, for instance. Two thousand lire a month! Roughly two hundred and fifty pounds a year. It wasn’t so bad for doing next to nothing. You could probably furnish a house very comfortably with two hundred and fifty pounds. And I could save a little on my ordinary salary as well. With the few pounds capital I had left after my two salary-less months, I could finance myself in England for long enough to find a good job. But, of course, it was all quite out of the question. Ferning must have been a bit of a fool to let himself become involved in that kind of game. Vagas might talk glibly about necessary intelligence, routine precautions and private business arrangements; but that was merely a polite way of putting it. The word was “espionage.” And espionage was a crime. If you were caught at it you were imprisoned.

All the same, there was one thing that wasn’t explained. Why had Zaleshoff been so insistent on my seeing Vagas? According to Vagas, Zaleshoff was a Soviet agent. Vagas, himself a Yugo-Slav agent, was probably in a position to know. Spying was, no doubt, like engineering. You got to know other people in the same line of business. All the same, the whole thing was rather disturbing and not very pleasant. Spies were things you sometimes read about in newspapers. The court was cleared and evidence was taken in camera. There was an absurd air of melodrama about the proceedings. Learned counsel adjusted their wigs and discoursed weightily on the subjects of secret documents, nameless “foreign powers,” mysterious meetings and sinister third parties who had “since left the country.” It all seemed unreal, part of another world, it did not touch your own everyday life at any point. Yet this world of spies and counter-spies did exist. Spies had to live somewhere. They had their work to do like anyone else. The fact that I had encountered two of them in an Italian industrial city shouldn’t be particularly surprising. It certainly was not particularly melodramatic. There were no mysterious meetings, no sinister third parties, the foreign powers were not nameless, and you could scarcely call Ferning’s notes a secret document. It was-I was surprised to find myself echoing Vagas’ words-simply a business matter. But what had Zaleshoff to do with it? It might, I decided, be amusing to find out. It could do no harm and my curiosity was aroused. It wasn’t every day that you met a spy. I ought to make the most of the opportunity. Zaleshoff obviously knew what Vagas was up to and his behaviour in the Opera House showed just as obviously that he did not wish Vagas to know that he had met me. I was, too, curious about Zaleshoff’s card index system. It would be interesting to know a little more about General Vagas. Claire would be intrigued, too. I could write and tell her about it. Besides, I did, so to speak, owe Zaleshoff a cake of soap over that passport business. That wasn’t quite so amusing. Well, there was probably a very simple explanation of Zaleshoff’s little “prophecy”-mentally I put the words in inverted commas.

By the time I arrived at the hotel, I was, I am afraid, feeling quite jaunty about the whole affair. I was cultivating a slight man-of-the-world attitude. It was, all things considered, just as well that I did not realise just what sort of an idiot I was being and just how sinister and melodramatic reality was very soon going to prove. If I had realised those things, I should not have slept nearly as soundly as I did sleep.

It was not until I had undressed for bed and was hanging my clothes in the wardrobe that I remembered Madame Vagas’ piece of paper. I retrieved it from my waistcoat pocket and unfolded it.

Scrawled across it were six words:

“ Ha fatto morire il signor Ferning.”

I sat down on the bed and stared at it blankly. “He killed Mr. Ferning.” Who did? Presumably Vagas. Vagas killed Ferning. But that was absurd. Ferning had been run over. This was obviously a piece of spiteful nonsense. You did not have to be particularly observant to notice that there was no love lost between Vagas and his wife. And you could scarcely wonder at it. Not by any stretch of the imagination could you describe either as particularly lovable. But this! The woman was clearly unbalanced.

I got into bed. Claire, I reflected, would have been amusing on the subject of Ricciardo.