Cause for Alarm v-2

by Eric Ambler

  Then, as if he had just remembered something: “But if you should wish to recognise this very trifling service…” He paused.

  “Yes, General?” But I had already perceived the trap into which I had fallen.

  “Please give your very sympathetic consideration to the proposal that I put to you last night.”

  “I am afraid, General…”

  “One moment, Mr. Marlow. In addition to the very valuable goodwill of the Commendatore, goodwill valuable, of course, only to the Spartacus company, I can increase my offer for your personal collaboration with me to three thousand lire a month.”

  “Then the goodwill of the Commendatore towards my employers is contingent on what you call my personal collaboration. Is that it, General?”

  He looked shocked. “Dear me, no. It is just that these things must be arranged on a basis of mutual confidence and friendly co-operation. Think it over, Mr. Marlow. In any case, go and see the Commendatore. The matter of this contract is, as I have said, urgent, but the Commendatore has promised me that he will take no final steps without seeing me again. A day or two either way can make little difference, and in a few days”-he paused meaningly-“much can happen.” He extended his hand. “Good night, Mr. Marlow, and once again my apologies for troubling you at such a late hour.”

  “A pleasure, General.”

  He went gracefully. I sat down and smoked a cigarette.

  Zaleshoff was right in one thing at least. Vagas was no fool. It had all been done so skilfully. The sprat had been offered with generous abandon. It had not been until I, poor fish, had risen to it and swallowed that the hook and line had been disclosed.

  Again, my objection to his proposal on the grounds of the loyalty I owed to my employers had been neatly met by providing me with a ready-made sop to my conscience. Part of the bribe would benefit Spartacus. The complete pill was sugared with an increase in my “personal interest.”

  I was left in a quandary. Should I go and see the Commendatore and begin negotiations in the hope of carrying them through without Vagas’ goodwill or should I forget the whole thing? I had an idea that to take the first course would be a pure waste of time. Vagas would scarcely have given me so much information if I could use it on my own account. Yet eight hundred thousand lire contracts were not everyday affairs. I ought, in any case, to make an effort to secure this one on my own. It was all very trying.

  I went up to my room, opening the letter the clerk had given me. It was, to my surprise, from Mr. Pelcher.

  Dear Mr. Marlow (I read),

  You must pardon my writing to your private address; but as this letter concerns your confidential memorandum to me on the subject of Bellinetti, I deemed it advisable to do so.

  Let me say at once that I am in perfect agreement with you in principle. Bellinetti’s work certainly leaves much to be desired. I did not do more than hint at this when you were in Wolverhampton, as I was anxious not to prejudice you against him before you had had an opportunity of judging for yourself. It was possible that you might have got on well with the man. That you have not done so does not, to be frank, surprise me. Which makes it all the more painful for me to have to tell you that I cannot under any circumstances agree to his dismissal.

  I feel that this calls for some amplification.

  Bellinetti was engaged by me, when I was in Milan shortly after Ferning joined the company, at the request of a man with whom we had done a certain amount of business-a petty government official. We needed an assistant for Ferning and so we took him on. A few weeks later I received a report from Ferning couched in almost the same terms as yours. I replied agreeing immediately to his suggestion. Ferning gave Bellinetti notice.

  I will not go into details here; but four days later pressure was put on us to reinstate Bellinetti. You may judge of the nature of the pressure and of the quarters from which it came when I tell you that I wired Ferning to re-engage Bellinetti forthwith. You must accept my assurance that had I failed to do so our interest in Italy would have suffered seriously. Bellinetti has, evidently, friends at court!

  Well, that was another addition to Zaleshoff’s score. Bellinetti was an Ovra spy. Mr. Pelcher’s statement was a circumstantial confirmation of the fact. I read on.

  As a consequence, I feel that I must ask you to do the best you can at the moment. I would like to be able to tell you to engage additional assistance in any case. I am afraid, however, that the turnover being handled through the Milan office does not warrant the expenditure. I heartily approve of your actions with regard to the girl engaged by Bellinetti (without permission I may add) and to the increased wages for the boy; but we must go cautiously. Bellinetti’s salary is not, as you know, insignificant, while your own is also chargeable to the Milan office.

  While we are on the subject of turnover (this, I thought, was a rather skilful juxtaposition of ideas) I should like to remind you of our conversation when you were in Wolverhampton concerning the works extension. This, I am glad to say, has been completed since you left, and we should be in production shortly. The great thing now is to get it busy and keep it busy. I want you to make every effort to make fresh contacts at your end. Our German competitors are, I know, doing quite well in Italy, which means that there is the business to be had. I suggest in this connection that you draw freely on your “ special appropriation.” When in Milan do as Rome does! (I could see him beaming happily over this jest.) I do not want the money wasted, naturally; but Spartacus has a name for generosity which you will do well to maintain. I look forward to your news with interest.

  The rest was kind regards, best wishes and a huge signature.

  My first reaction was one of irritation. How on earth could I be expected to make new contacts? I had not yet had time to make sure of the old ones. And then another thought put that aspect of the business out of my head. It had been Fitch who had explained to me the details of what he referred to with mournful jocularity as the “corruption fund.” Mr. Pelcher had used the word “appropriation.” So had Vagas. Ferning had possibly told him about it. It was also possible that Ferning’s successes on behalf of Spartacus had had something to do with Vagas. Vagas had hinted as much himself. In that case my solitary efforts were not going to prove very productive by comparison. It would end by my being in the absurd position of having to explain to Mr. Pelcher that Ferning had only been able to get business by doing a little espionage on the side. The fact that I should be totally unable to produce any proof that this preposterous assertion were true would make it look like a very silly and rather churlish excuse. Mr. Pelcher would probably say, “ De mortuis nil nisi bonum.”

  And there was another disquieting thought. What Vagas had given Vagas could probably take away; and if he had been responsible for Ferning’s securing valuable contracts, my failure to fall in with his wishes might even lead to a loss of existing turnover. Mr. Pelcher would not like that at all. Neither should I. Even if I were able to secure new business to make up for the loss, my commission arrangement only held good for turnover over and above the original figure.

  I shrugged. It was, after all, mere supposition and too early yet to start complaining. What I had to do was to make the best of things as they were and do my best to get new business. It would, I reflected on a sudden wave of optimism, be nice to be able to present Mr. Pelcher with the Commendatore’s eight hundred thousand lire order. I should certainly see the Commendatore in the morning.

  I undressed, got into bed and closed my eyes.

  It had been a tiring day-another tiring day-and I hadn’t written to Claire since Tuesday. That was something I must do without fail to-morrow-write to Claire. I had a lot to tell her. The question was whether it was wise to put it in a letter. Probably not. But still…

  My feet began to get warm. The warmth stole up my legs to my body. Vagas could say what he liked about the Parigi, but the beds were comfortable. I felt drowsy. I ought to see about my passport again in the morning. What a lot there was to do! Rome-Berlin axis.
What an odd idea that of Zaleshoff’s! A world turning on an axis not its own. You would get a sort of cam action. Did people ever use eccentric spheres for anything? Probably not. There was no point in such a thing. It was useless. A pity that. There ought to be some use for a spherical cam. Perhaps I could find a use for it, some way of transmitting power with lower losses. The Marlow Spherical Cam Action. Patents Applied For in All Countries and the U. S. Absurd!

  And then, as I drew nearer to sleep, two sentences of Zaleshoff’s began to recur in my mind. Vagas is working overtime. I eased my pillow until it was wedged under my shoulder. As long as the Ovra don’t see that you’re in touch with him, you’re all right. I began to regulate their rhythm to my breathing. Then, as my mind slid gently below the surface of consciousness, I forgot both the sentences.

  I was to be reminded of the second before many hours had passed.

  On my way to the Commendatore’s office at the Ordnance Department the following morning, I called at the Consulate for news of my passport.

  There was no news. The fact did not surprise me. It was obvious that the Consulate was doing its best to get satisfaction, but there wasn’t much to be said to the police authorities’ blank assurances that the passport had been mislaid. The Consul couldn’t very well express disbelief and insist upon searching the Amministrazione with his own hands. I was again assured that if I wished to leave the country I could be furnished with a Document of Identity to take me across the frontiers. I expressed my thanks politely and went my way. There was nothing else I could do.

  From the fuss attending my application to see him, I concluded that the Commendatore was even more important a person than Vagas’ references to him had seemed to me to imply. Lips were pursed doubtfully. Had I an appointment with the Commendatore? No? Ah, then, it was difficult. It would be best if I wrote for an appointment. I persisted. Eventually, on the understanding that I knew the Commendatore personally and that, although I had no definite appointment with him, he was expecting me, I was allowed to fill in a form stating my name and business. I put down my name, hesitated, then wrote across the space left for the description of my business: “The subject of your conversation with General Vagas.” I sat down prepared for a long wait, but two minutes later I was ushered by a uniformed secretary through a pair of tall double doors into the Commendatore’s office.

  In his carpeted office, behind his expensive desk and without his wife, Commendatore Bernabo looked considerably more impressive than I had thought at first. He was dressed in a dark suit with a flower in the buttonhole. He frowned, fingered the flower, then motioned me to a chair. We disposed of the usual courtesies. He twirled his moustache a trifle impatiently and became businesslike.

  “What can I do for you, Signore?”

  This, I decided, was mere fencing. Obviously he had understood my message.

  “General Vagas was, I believe, good enough to intimate to you, Commendatore, that my company might be of assistance to you.”

  “And so?”

  “And so I should very much like to be given the opportunity of tendering for the machinery you need. I don’t think I need enlarge on the reputation of the Spartacus S2 machine. Your government has already displayed its confidence in that connection.”

  He nodded, but said nothing. It was heavy going, but I went on.

  “Naturally, Commendatore, I appreciate that you have a personal responsibility in seeing that the best material is secured.” I placed a slight emphasis on the word “personal.” I wanted to get the conversation on a more confidential footing.

  “Naturally it must be of the best.”

  I tried a more direct method of attack.

  “I am prepared to offer personal guarantees to you, Commendatore, concerning the quality of the Spartacus machine.”

  He pulled at his moustaches thoughtfully. Then his eyes met mine for a second. “And when would these guarantees be forthcoming, Signore?”

  This was distinctly better.

  “On the signing of the contract, Commendatore.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Not before?”

  “A provisional guarantee might be arranged, Commendatore, as evidence of our confidence in the matter. The figure two was mentioned by General Vagas. If we were perhaps to say one per cent. in cash as a provisional guarantee and the remainder…?”

  He held up his hand. “I understand perfectly, Signore. I am agreeable to that course. You may submit your tender. Good morning.” He stood up and extended his hand.

  “Thank you, Commendatore. Perhaps you would be so good as to arrange for me to have specifications in order that we may submit our estimate.”

  He looked puzzled. “Specifications, Signore? I do not understand you. They were given to General Vagas for transmission to you. Have you not received them?”

  I shook my head. I was beginning to understand.

  “No doubt General Vagas will let you have them, Signore.”

  “I may not be seeing the General. Perhaps your secretary could furnish me with another set, Commendatore.”

  “Unfortunately,” he replied blandly, “there are no more available. I recommend your making an effort to see the General.” He sat down again. “And now, Signore, if you will excuse me…”

  I went. So that was that. Without Vagas’ approval I was not to be allowed even to quote.

  I returned to my office in a bitter temper. I found that I was again being followed by the tall man who had seen me to the hotel the night before. The sight of Bellinetti sitting with Serafina at a caffe near the Via San Giulio when he should have been at his work did nothing to improve the situation. And there was a telephone message for me. One of the machines supplied to a firm in Cremona had broken down. The spare parts would not fit. If I could make it convenient to go to Cremona and advise their engineers concerning repairs and subsequent readjustments they would be very glad. The matter was urgent.

  Cursing heartily, I told Umberto to telephone back and say that I would go to Cremona the next day. Then I sat down at my desk. There were mountains of work to be done. If I were to spend the next day at Cremona I should have to work late. I attacked the first mountain.

  It was after nine o’clock and my eyes and back were aching when at last I switched off the lights and locked up. The stairs were, as usual, in darkness; but there was a slit of light under the door of the Agenzia Saponi. Zaleshoff was, I felt, the last person I wanted to talk to at the moment. I went past on tip-toe.

  In the street I stood for a moment trying to make up my mind where to eat. I had not yet written to Claire. If I had a quick meal somewhere I could, perhaps, write the letter at the Parigi and catch the last post. I looked round for the man who had been following me earlier in the day, but I could not see him. He was probably, I decided, somewhere in the shadows waiting for me to move. I remember that it occurred to me that it must be very dull for him. Then I made up my mind and started to walk in the direction of the station.

  It was in a small street off the Via San Giulio and not much more than a hundred yards from the office that it happened.

  I was walking fairly quickly, for I was both hungry and thirsty. I had a cigarette in my mouth. It was as I tossed the end away that I noticed the car turning the corner behind me. For a moment its glaring headlights picked me out. My shadow, long, distorted and grotesque, lay along the pavement and a foot or two up the side of a long, dark, steel-shuttered building that was, I think, some sort of warehouse. Then the shadow twisted as the car accelerated. It passed me-a big, black American limousine-still going slowly.

  Suddenly, a few yards ahead of me, it swung across the road to the kerb and stopped. As it did so, the doors opened and four men got out and stood across the pavement facing me.

  I walked on towards them.

  Probably the best thing I could have done would have been to turn round and run; but I did not do so. It had occurred to me that it was rather an odd place for them to have stopped, for there was no doorway for several
yards on either side of the car and on the opposite of the road was a long hoarding. But the thought was no more than one of casual curiosity.

  It was only when I was a foot or two from them that I realised that something was wrong. They made no effort to give me room to pass. My heart thumped suddenly against my ribs. I hesitated, then made to squeeze past between the shutters and the end man.

  He moved over slightly, blocking my path.

  I stopped and muttered an “excuse me.” Then I saw that the two near the car had moved round to form a semi-circle with myself as the centre. Involuntarily I backed against the shutter.

  They were dressed in dark clothes with soft hats pulled down over their foreheads. In the darkness their faces were no more than white shapes.

  “ Come vi chiamate? ”

  The question came suddenly from one of them. I could not tell which. It was the only thing that was said. But for that they might have been mutes. I said my name and added that I was English.

  One of them, the man nearest the car, turned his head and nodded to the others. They moved forward, closing in on me. It was done in complete silence. I looked round wildly. We were alone in the street. Then I lost my head. There was a gap between a pair of them. I dived for it frantically; but, even as I did so, I knew that it was useless. I felt two hands grip the lapels of my overcoat. The next moment I was flung back violently against the shutter. I started forward again to speak. “I…” I began. Then a fist hit me in the stomach.

  My chin dropped forward. I began to retch. Another blow landed on my mouth, I felt a ring on the man’s finger crush the skin against the bone. Then I hit the ground. They began to kick me.

  As I fell I had rolled over, in an instinctive effort at self-protection, so that my back was against the shutter. The blow in the stomach had brought my knees up under my chin. Now my hands went to my face. The kicks rained on my arms and legs. Then a heel was driven into my ribs. An excruciating pain shot through my body. As I strove to force air into my lungs I gasped and grunted. A red mist was swimming in front of my eyes. Dimly I was conscious of the shocks of the blows, but they no longer seemed to hurt me. It was as though I were under the partial influence of an an?sthetic.