Cause for Alarm v-2

by Eric Ambler

  “Don’t the Italians know he’s really a German agent?”

  “They certainly do not. How should they know? He wouldn’t be the first German officer to take service with another country. I only found out by accident. After all, the guy has got a Yugo-Slav passport, and that beautiful fiction about his being a Yugo-Slav agent has been handled very cleverly. No, if they ever arrest Vagas, it’ll be for espionage on behalf of Yugo-Slavia. And that suits the German Foreign Ministry. It would be embarrassing for all concerned if an important German spy were to be caught on Italian soil.”

  “But what does Vagas do?”

  Zaleshoff emitted an exasperated sigh. “What does he do? Listen, Marlow, if an Englishman came to you to-morrow and swore black and blue that Spartacus were going bankrupt next month, what would you do? You might believe or disbelieve him, but you’d write to a friend in England and ask him to check up on the situation for you. That’s Vagas’ job-checking up. If the Italians tell their Nazi boy friends that they’re building two hundred and fifty new-type bombing planes this year, Uncle Vagas gets busy and checks up to make sure that it isn’t five hundred and fifty. Dictators who can’t even trust their own subordinates out of their sight aren’t likely to trust each other very far. And, the way things are going at the moment, that mutual distrust is deepening. It’s the one weak spot in the Rome-Berlin axis, and it’s because of that weak spot that I’m sitting here talking to you.”

  “I was wondering why it was,” I murmured.

  “Then now you know.” He projected his jaw at me aggressively. “The point is that things are not what they were between Italy and Germany. Austria is gone. The Reichswehr is on the Brenner Pass. Mussolini is scared of that fact, and because he’s scared he’s dangerous-to Germany. The Nazis are on their guard. Vagas is working overtime.”

  “I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

  The girl looked up from her sewing. “My brother’s very fond of the sound of his own voice.”

  “So fond,” snarled Zaleshoff, “that I’m going to tell him a little story.” He turned to me again. “When I was at school in Chicago, Marlow, there were two big boys named Joe and Ted who used to bully us little kids. It went on for months. We got pretty sick of it. We tried ambushing them and they beat up a whole lot of us. Then one day we had an idea. There was one kid who used to follow Joe about like a shadow. His name was Augustus, if you can imagine that. We used to call him ‘Augie.’ He was a snivelling little rat, this Augie. He’d been bullied by Joe, and to protect himself he’d taken to cleaning Joe’s boots and running errands for him. Joe let him. Then Augie took to working off his private hates by getting Joe to beat up the other kids for him. Joe was only too ready to oblige. Augie became a kind of protege of Joe’s. Wherever Joe and Ted went he used to tag along behind. It used to make us mad until we got our idea. One day two of us waited for Augie near the city dump at the end of the street. We said we’d got something funny to tell him. We said that we heard Ted say that Joe was nothing but a yellow rat who wouldn’t dare to let out a squeak if he, Ted, challenged him. Then we beat up Augie a little and waited for results. We didn’t have to wait long. Augie ran straightaway to spill the beans to Joe. After school that day Joe and Ted got together. Naturally, Ted denied that he’d said anything about Joe. Joe said that Ted must be too yellow to repeat it to his face. Then they began. Joe finished up in hospital with three stitches in his scalp where Ted had hit him with a brick. Ted had a beating from Joe’s father. What do you think of that?” he concluded triumphantly, and stared hard at me.

  I was wilfully dense. “Very nice. But what’s the moral?”

  He looked slightly crestfallen. “Don’t you see?” He drew a deep breath. “I’ll put it plainer. Supposing Vagas obtained information concerning Italy’s activities that surprised him very much, information that she wouldn’t like the Nazis to have. Vagas would tell the Nazis and then, you see…”

  “Yes, I see. It would put that kink that you were talking about in the Rome-Berlin axis. But there’s just one thing you seem to forget. The Nazis are not as simple as Joe. They’d find out in five minutes that it was just ballyhoo.”

  He tapped my knee triumphantly. “But, my good friend, if it wasn’t just ballyhoo, if it were true…”

  “True!”

  He grinned. “The cat and the dog!”

  “Well, what is this precious information?” I did not really believe that he had any.

  “Do you remember that, some time ago, Mussolini made one of his blood-and-thunder speeches on the subject of Italian defence. I know he’s always making them about something, but this one was a little more specific than usual. It was a speech aimed at making you British shiver in your shoes. He referred in particular to the power of the Italian air force, and made a special point of six secret Italian aerodromes that had been built for war use. Naturally, the German General Staff was interested. Shortly afterwards, the German and the Italian Staffs had conversations and drew up fresh plans for common action in the event of French support for Czechoslovakia. Those secret aerodromes were mentioned. The Italian General Staff was obliging. It gave the Germans full particulars. The aerodromes were near the French and Swiss frontiers. The Germans went away satisfied. But ”-he wagged his finger slowly-“the fact of the matter is that at least three of those secret aerodromes are in the Trentino near what used to be the Austrian frontier, and the Germans don’t know it!”

  “Very interesting.”

  “Now,” he went on persuasively, “the question is how to get that information to Vagas in such a way as to leave no doubt about its being accepted as true. That’s where…”

  “I know,” I interjected; “that’s where I come in.”

  “Exactly and…”

  “There’s nothing doing, Zaleshoff.”

  “But just…”

  “Absolutely nothing doing,” I repeated firmly. “I’m…”

  “Yes, yes,” he put in testily; “you’re an engineer and you’re here on business, and you’re not going to get yourself into the sort of spot Ferning got into. I know. But wait a minute.” He became eager. “There’s no question of you’re getting into a spot. The only thing is to avoid any actual meeting with Vagas. As long as the Ovra don’t see that you’re in touch with him you’re all right. You can telephone him and arrange to communicate through the poste restante with assumed names. He won’t mind that. It’ll please him. If he thinks you’re scared but dead set on the money, he’ll also think that you’ll be easier to deal with when it comes to putting the screw on. As for Spartacus, you needn’t give Vagas the real dope, you can cook up anything. He won’t bother to check it. Then if he should turn nasty over anything and write to Pelcher, you’ll be quite O.K. All you have to do is to send Vagas three letters. The first’ll be a cooked Spartacus report on the past month’s activities. He’ll want that. When he’s got it he’ll increase his demands. Right. Your next report in a month’s time will contain some additional dope, among it an item about the delivery of three special hydraulic lifts for aircraft. The third report will give news of consignments of ammunition bound for the same places. Just enough for him to be able to piece the story together for himself. For doing just that, Marlow, you get six thousand lire from Vagas and ”-he looked me in the eyes-“another six thousand from me.”

  I looked from one to the other. The girl, her head bent over the hem of the blouse she was making, was apparently unaware that we were there; but I saw that the needle had stopped moving and that her fingers were poised delicately like those of a woman in a Dutch painting. Zaleshoff had suddenly busied himself with the lighting of a cigarette.

  I cleared my throat loudly. “I think, Zaleshoff,” I said evenly, “that the time has come for you to explain just what personal interest you have in this business. Where do you come in? In other words, what’s your game?”

  He looked with well-simulated surprise. “My game? I have no game.” An expression of disarming sincerity, of
rugged candour, appeared suddenly on his face. “Put me down, Marlow, as a simple American with a little more money than I need”-he repeated this-“more money than I need. That’s the plain truth of it, I guess. I’m a simple American who hates war. But I want to do something more than hate.” His voice vibrated with evangelical feeling. “I want to help make the peace we all want in a more practical way than just by talking. The world is in a bad way, Marlow. What it needs is good management. I’m a business man, Marlow, a pretty successful one, though I say it myself. This little old world wants running on business lines. I’m a doer, Marlow, not a thinker. Thinking’s not going to get us any place. We need the co-operation of practical men. That’s why I’m appealing to you, Marlow. You’re a practical man. We men of goodwill have just got to get together, roll up our sleeves and get something done, eh?” He beamed at me, a benevolent Babbitt with a parcel of real-estate to unload.

  It was nauseating, it was grotesque. I stared at him, speechless. At last I got to my feet.

  “Well, well. I’m afraid it’s rather late. I shall have to be going.” I went across the room and picked up my overcoat. They watched me in silence. Zaleshoff’s beam had eased into a scowl. I put my overcoat on and went towards the door. “Thanks again,” I said, “for a very good dinner.”

  “Just a minute.” It was Zaleshoff, a very hard-voiced Zaleshoff.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m waiting for an answer from you.”

  I turned round. “Yes, of course. I was forgetting.” I put my hand into my overcoat pocket and drew out a small parcel that was in it. I had purchased this parcel that afternoon. Now I planked it down on the table.

  “What’s that?” demanded Zaleshoff suspiciously.

  I opened the door.

  “It’s the cake of soap I owe you,” I said carefully. “Luckily, I was able to get one in the shape of a lemon.” I nodded genially. “Good night to you both.”

  Not a muscle of Zaleshoff’s face moved. He just stood there looking at me, a curious expression in his eyes. The girl shrugged and returned to her sewing. I went.

  The entrance to Zaleshoff’s place was in a short alleyway at the side of the shop. It was very dark in the alleyway. The man standing on the far side of the street did not see me immediately; but as I stepped into the light I saw him turn away quickly and stare into a shop window.

  I turned in the direction of the Parigi. A little way down I stopped and lighted a cigarette. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was following me. It was not, however, Bellinetti. This man was taller. I did not look back again but walked straight on to the hotel. If what Zaleshoff had said were true, the best possible thing I could do was to behave as naturally as possible. I had nothing to hide and did not intend to have anything to hide. If the secret police wished to waste their time following me, that was their lookout.

  All the same, it was an uncomfortable feeling. I felt myself walking a little stiffly and self-consciously. I began to think of the story Zaleshoff had told me about Ferning’s death. In my mind’s eye I saw him walking along a street as I was now walking. He must have heard the car coming before it hit him: and in that final second those anxious eyes, that flat, plump jowl must have been distorted with terror. I thought of his bald head. It must have bobbed absurdly as he went down. But it was all, I told myself, a product of Zaleshoff’s imagination. Such things didn’t happen. Then a stray car swinging out of a side street in front of me made me jump badly. I felt myself break out into a sweat. It was all I could do to prevent myself from running. I was heartily thankful when I reached the hotel.

  The clerk beckoned to me from his desk.

  “There is a letter for you, Signore. And a gentleman is waiting to see you. He was told that you might be late, but he wished to wait. He was shown into the writing-room where it is warm.”

  I took the letter. “Who is it?”

  “I was not on duty when he arrived, Signore. He left no name.”

  “All right, thanks.”

  I went into the writing-room.

  Sitting comfortably near a radiator and reading a paper was Vagas.

  9

  O.V.R.A.

  As I came into the room, he put his paper down and got to his feet. He was in evening clothes.

  “Good evening, Mr. Marlow.”

  “Good evening, General.” I did not feel particularly cordial, and could not have sounded so, for he coughed apologetically.

  “I hope you will forgive this intrusion. I was particularly anxious to see you.”

  “By all means.” I made an effort to sound enthusiastic. “May I offer you a drink?”

  “Thank you, no. Perhaps one of your English cigarettes… thank you. Shall we sit down? I shall not detain you long.”

  “I beg your pardon. Yes, please sit down.”

  “Thank you.” He sat down and glanced round the room distastefully. “I should find this a very depressing atmosphere, Mr. Marlow. This Utrecht green, these faded reminders of an effete imperialism. Buonaparte always seems to me a slightly pathetic figure: a parvenu with a talent for making fools of wiser men: a man with a taste for the grandiose and the soul of an accountant. Don’t you agree with me?”

  “Most of my time here I spend in bed.” It was perhaps a little too pointed, but he nodded calmly enough.

  “Yes, of course. You must be a very busy man. I will explain the reason for this somewhat unconventional visit. Last night…” He stopped. “By the way, I hope you weren’t too bored.”

  “Not in the least. It was a most pleasant evening.”

  “I’m so glad. My wife found you charming.”

  “Please convey my respects to Madame Vagas.”

  “Thank you. However,” he went on, “there is one matter on which I should like to say more.”

  “Yes?” I thought I knew what was coming; but I was wrong.

  “The matter of Commendatore Bernabo. I am most anxious that you should meet him again, Mr. Marlow. I had occasion to see him to-day and happened to learn from him some very interesting news. Interesting,” he added, with a meaning look, “from your point of view.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes. I learned,” he went on impressively, “that the Government is considering heavy purchases of shell-production plant from a German firm. It is plant of a type your firm has been supplying.”

  He obviously expected me to make some comment on this, but I waited. He drew at his cigarette and expelled the smoke slowly. Then he went on again.

  “With you in mind, Mr. Marlow, I had a little talk with the Commendatore on the subject. I am afraid that the German firm is very well entrenched. Naturally, for political reasons Italy is disposed to buy from Germany rather than from other countries. But the German firm has also procured friends by, shall we say, unethical means.” He stared at his cigarette. “Now I don’t know what your attitude towards these regrettable practices is, Mr. Marlow, but if your company does allocate an appropriation for-how shall I put it? — for entertainment and such things, I cannot help feeling that here is a case in which a comparatively small expenditure would be richly rewarded. Naturally, the matter is now somewhat urgent, but the Commendatore was agreeable that I should mention the matter to you. Of course, if you would prefer to take no action, there is no commitment on either side.”

  He waved a graceful hand. My nose caught a faint waft of perfume.

  “You mean,” I said bluntly, “that if the Commendatore gets a decent rake-off he is prepared to switch this contract my way?”

  He smiled thinly. “That is a crude way of putting it, Mr. Marlow, but it is reasonably correct.”

  “I see. May I ask which German firm is concerned?”

  He told me. I recognised the name as that of my principal competitors.

  “And what is the value of the contract, General.”

  “About eight hundred and fifty thousand lire if your prices are the same as the German.”

  I thought quickly. That was just
over eight thousand pounds-nearly forty S2 machines. It did sound like an Ordnance Department contract, and the fact that the German firm had tendered…

  “And how much should I earmark for the Commendatore?”

  “Two per cent. of the gross value of the contract.”

  “That seems reasonable enough. But what about the Germans?”

  He smiled. “They are very confident, Mr. Marlow. So confident that they are not prepared to offer more than one and a half per cent. for the privilege of handling the contract.”

  “May I ask, General, the extent of your interest in the transaction?”

  He raised a protesting hand. “Please, Mr. Marlow, please! There is no question of my participating financially. It is purely a friendly affair as far as I am concerned. I know you, I know the Commendatore. I am delighted to be of assistance to you and the Spartacus company.”

  He exuded disinterested goodwill. I felt a little embarrassed.

  “You must allow me to recognise your efforts in some way, General.”

  “My dear Mr. Marlow, I shouldn’t dream of it. It is just a small affair between friends. I was able to help Mr. Ferning in similar ways from time to time. Besides, the business is not concluded yet. Naturally, you will have to arrange matters personally with the Commendatore. In the ordinary way he is a little inaccessible and difficult. But the fact that you are a friend of mine will, I think you will find, smooth over the embarrassing preliminaries. Incidentally, he prefers to conduct his private dealings in cash. I mention that because…”

  “Quite so.”

  He smiled and stood up. “I can see, Mr. Marlow, that you have a certain amount of experience in these affairs. I suggest that you call on the Commendatore in the morning.”

  “I shall do so. And thank you again, General. I hope you will let me repay you in some way for your help.”

  “It is nothing. As I say, I was able to give Mr. Ferning some help of a similar nature from time to time.” He hesitated.