by Eric Ambler
My love to you, darling, and bless you.
Claire.
I had an idea that most poetic justice was pretty crude.
From Alfred Pelcher, Esq., to myself.
Wolverhampton,
April 19.
Dear Mr. Marlow,
Congratulations! It’s a fine piece of news and, as you say, the price is quite the best we have been able to get so far. Mr. Fitch, who asks me to add his felicitations to mine, tells me that, according to the specifications you have forwarded to him, the total cost of modifications will add about thirty shillings to the works cost of each machine. Your own personal estimate probably told you that. It is, I must say, a most “ ingenious ” arrangement.
Mr. Fitch will be writing to you concerning the way in which the financial details are to be handled and other matters, but I thought that I should like to send you this personal word of congratulation. It is a splendid start. Now we must see if we cannot “ repeat the dose.” What do you say?
Yours sincerely,
Alfred Pelcher.
From Maggiore Generale J. L. Vagas to myself.
Corso Di Porta Nuova,
Milano,
April 20.
My dear Mr. Marlow,
I am anxious to have a chat with you on a matter of some importance. I should be pleased if you could spare time to dine with me at my house to-morrow. Shall we say at eight o’clock? Perhaps you would be good enough to telephone me if you are unable to come.
With kindest regards,
Yours sincerely,
J. L. Vagas.
From myself to Maggiore Generale J. L. Vagas. By hand.
Hotel Parigi,
Milano,
April 21.
My dear General,
I am afraid that I cannot dine with you to-morrow. May I remind you of our conversation on the subject of future communications between us?
Yours very truly,
Nicholas Marlow.
From “J. L. Venezetti” to “N. Marinetti,” Poste Restante, American Express, Milano.
MILANO,
April 21.
Dear Sir,
I should not have requested an interview unless the matter were of vital importance. It is imperative that I see you at once. Will you please let me know by return of post when and where I can meet you. I leave the time and the place to your selection.
Yours faithfully,
J. L. Venezetti.
From “N. Marinetti” to “J. L. Venezetti,” Poste Restante, Wagon-Lits-Cook, Milano.
Milano,
April 22.
Dear Sir,
I shall be driving a dark-blue Fiat limousine at about 35 km. per hour along the Milan-Varese autostrada at about 10.45 on Sunday night. I shall stop only for a car drawn up at the side of the road facing Varese and about 25 km. from Milan and showing two rear lights close together.
Yours faithfully,
N. Marinetti.
11
BLOOD AND THUNDER
It was Zaleshoff who had made the arrangements for the meeting between Vagas and myself. I had received his proposals with some amusement.
“Blood and thunder,” I had commented.
He had frowned. “I don’t know about the thunder, but if the Ovra gets on to the fact that you’re meeting Vagas, it’ll be your blood all right.”
“Where’s the Fiat coming from?”
“I’ll fix that.”
“But why on Sunday?”
“Because there’ll be a procession here on Sunday afternoon.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“You’ve been under surveillance practically ever since you came here and since that beating up they gave you, you’ve had two of the guys on your tail. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I’ve seen them. They hang about opposite the office all day.”
“Before you can meet Vagas you’ll have to get rid of them. This procession’ll make it easy.”
“How?”
“You’ll see. You write that letter.”
I had written it.
Waiting to be blackmailed is an odd experience. I could not help wondering how Vagas would set about it. What line would he take? He had, hitherto, been all amiability. There was even a sort of oily charm about him. Would he shed his amiability or would the charm intensify, a velvet glove to enclose the mailed fist? I amused myself by speculating.
There was about those days I spent in Milan a curious air of the fantastic. That I had regretted the mood of bitter resentment that had led me into agreeing to carry out Zaleshoff’s plan, goes without saying. Yet, such is the mind’s ability to adapt itself to an idea, the thought that I might back out of the whole business occurred to me only as a sort of protest, an unexecutable threat. And I had decided to resign from Spartacus. That was the important thing. It was, perhaps, that decision more than anything else that determined my attitude. I was shortly to leave Milan. The fact lent a disarming air of impermanence to the situation. In two months or so I should be home and then I really could get down to the business of getting a good job. What happened between now and then seemed of secondary importance. I no longer identified myself with Spartacus. As I had told Claire, I had no conscience about the company. I had, with Vagas’ assistance, secured a valuable order for them. That was that. All I had to do until the time came for me to leave was to see that their interests were adequately protected. If the opportunity presented itself I would secure still more business for them. That was all. In point of fact, it was no less than I should have done if I had been remaining with them. But my attitude was different, it was qualified. I had a sense of being independent, of being to some extent on holiday. This business of Zaleshoff’s was, I felt, almost in the nature of a game. That I did not know the rules of it was, no doubt, just as well for my peace of mind.
Since the night I had spent in his office, I had seen Zaleshoff practically every day. At first his mood had been one of lip-smacking anticipation. Everything, he assured me repeatedly, was prepared. It was only a question of waiting for Vagas to begin to turn the screw. Then, as the month wore on without any sign of life from Vagas, his jubilation gave way to gloomy forebodings. He became irritable. Several times I was tempted to abandon the whole thing and twice threatened to do so. On both occasions he offered exasperated apologies. My admiration for his sister’s forbearance increased daily. Yet, to a certain extent, I could understand his anxiety.
“I’m beginning to think,” he declared gloomily on one occasion, “that it was a mistake to cook those Spartacus figures.”
“You know darn well I wouldn’t have given him the correct ones.”
“Very likely. But he’s probably gone to the trouble to check the first lot and found that they’re phoneys. He probably thinks you put one over on him to get that Ordnance Department contract and has written you off as a bad investment.”
“How could he check them?”
“How should I know? But it’s the only thing that can have happened. How else can you explain this silence? He’s got all the stuff he wants to blackmail you with. Why doesn’t he get on with it?”
“Perhaps he’s waiting until I send in this month’s figures, sort of lulling me into a sense of false security.”
“Maybe. I hope you’re right. This waiting is getting on my nerves.”
That much was obvious. The reason for it puzzled me. I myself was conscious of a sense of anti-climax, almost of disappointment; but I was intrigued by his attitude. Why should the situation get on his nerves to so absurd an extent? For me it was no more than a somewhat sinister game. For him it looked like a matter of life and death importance. A great many of the things which Vagas had told me were, no doubt, lies. But, in one thing, at least, he had, I felt, told me something approaching the truth.
Over our coffee one evening I worked round to the subject. It was fairly easy to do. His despair had been more than usually extravagant. I awaited an opening. Then:
“I
admit that it’s all very irritating. But, for the life of me, Zaleshoff, I cannot see why you should take it so much to heart.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You don’t think that the peace of Europe is something that a guy can get anxious about?” His tone was almost offensively sarcastic.
“Oh yes. The peace of Europe, to be sure! But if we could get down to Mother Earth for a minute…”
“Mother Earth!” His voice rose angrily. “Mother Earth! Say, listen, Marlow. It pains me to have to tell you this because, dumb cluck that you are, it would be just as well if you didn’t know it: but you, Heaven protect us, happen to be of some importance at the moment. Say, have you ever had a suitcase to unlock and a bunch of odd keys in your hand? There’s just one key that fits. None of the others matters a curse. They’re keys but they’re not the key. Well, it’s like that now. And you’re the key.”
I was a little irritated by his manner. “What about leaving out the metaphors and trying plain English?”
“Sure! In plain English, the Germans are doing their damnedest to drive a wedge in the Anglo-Italian Mediterranean accord. They’re out to preserve the Axis. Without it they can’t make another move in Eastern Europe. And they’ve got to make that move. You know what old man Aristotle said. The tyrant who impoverishes the citizens is obliged to make war in order to keep his subjects occupied and impose on them permanent need of a chief. Italy’s sitting pretty now. She can play off Germany against France and England. But that’s only because she’s got a stake in both camps. The Axis is just as vital to her as it is to Germany. If once she gets into a position where she has to become a dependency of the City of London, she’s done. They’ll finance her heavy industries, choke her with credits until the lira is so sick it can’t stand. Then they’ll tie a ribbon round Mussolini and give him to the Germans as a Christmas present. Italy’s strength in the south is the Axis in the north. It’s only mutual distrust that is going to counteract the identity of interests between Germany and Italy. For some crack-brained reason you, Marlow, are in a position to turn their suspicions into downright distrust. And you ask me why I’m anxious!”
“And I still do ask you why you are anxious.”
He knitted his brow, a man driven to exasperation but restraining himself with an effort. “Do I have to go over all that again?”
“I think,” put in the girl, “that what Mr. Marlow is getting at is what the heck it’s got to do with you.”
He drew a deep breath. “I’m an American citizen,” he began impressively, “and…”
“I know,” I put in furiously; “you’re an American citizen and you think that us men of goodwill ought to get together and co-operate to save the peace of Europe. I know. I’ve heard it all before. But it still doesn’t answer my question. Vagas warned me against you. You knew that he might, didn’t you? And you thought you’d take the sting out of that warning by letting me see that you’d expected it. But what you don’t know is that he told me that you and your sister were Soviet Government agents. What have you got to say to that?”
He looked at me. His jaw dropped. Then he looked at the girl. Her expression was utterly non-committal. He looked back at me again. I nearly permitted myself a grin of triumph. Fortunately for my dignity I did not do so for, suddenly, he began to roar with laughter and slap his knee. “Soviet agents!” he bellowed hysterically; “that’s too good! Oh my!”
I waited stolidly until he had finished. Then:
“You still,” I said dryly, “haven’t answered my question.”
He became suddenly serious. “One moment, Marlow. Before you jump to any rash conclusions, think. What would I, a respectable American, want with…”
Disgustedly, I waved him into silence. “All right, all right! let it go.”
“And…”
“Let it go. But”-I wagged a finger at them-“don’t blame me if I draw my own conclusions, will you?”
“Why should we blame you, Mr. Marlow?” said the girl pleasantly.
For some reason the question embarrassed me. I let the subject drop. Privately, however, I registered a decision to bring it up again: but the opportunity of doing so did not present itself immediately. Three days later, to Zaleshoff’s noisily expressed delight, I received Vagas’ letter.
At half-past two on the Sunday afternoon, I left the Hotel Parigi, followed, as usual, by two drab-looking men, and met Zaleshoff at a caffe near the Castello. Tamara was not with him. He ordered a coffee for me and looked at his watch.
“We’ve got about ten minutes to go before we need start.”
“Start what?”
“To lose those two shadows of yours.”
“But I’m not meeting Vagas until nearly eleven to-night.”
“Maybe not, but we start the good work this afternoon.”
“Look here, Zaleshoff,” I protested irritably, “isn’t it about time you told me what this is all about?”
“I was just going to. Listen. You’ve got to get rid of those two guys somehow, and they’re not going to fall for anything elementary like walking into an hotel with two exits. I’ve watched them on the job. They know their stuff. Besides, if you try to put one over on them they’ll know you’re up to something, and that’d be nearly as bad as their knowing what it is you’re up to. We don’t want that. You’ve got to give them the slip by accident-at least so that it looks like an accident. That’s where the procession comes in.”
“What procession?”
“Fascist Youth Movements-the Balilla and Avanguardisti — military boy scouts. They’re marching up from the Centrale station, about ten thousand of them, with bands and a detachment of Blackshirts. They’re all coming in from Cremona, Brescia, Verona and a few more places by special trains. Then they’re going to march to the Piazza Duomo to listen to one of the Fascist bosses telling them what a fine thing war is and be reviewed. Then they’re going to sing the Giovinezza and march back again. It’s when they’re marching back that you do the trick.”
“What trick? Don’t tell me that I’ve got to dress up as an Italian Boy Scout and fall in with the procession, because I won’t do it.”
“This is serious.”
“Sorry.”
He leaned forward solemnly. “Have you ever wanted to cross a road when a big procession was going by?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get across?”
“No.”
“Exactly! Well, now then, listen.”
For five minutes he talked steadily. When he had finished I looked at him doubtfully.
“It might work,” I admitted.
“It will work. It’s just a question of good timing.”
“Supposing they won’t let me through?”
“With Tamara doing her stuff, they will.”
“All right, I’ll try it.”
“Good. Finish your coffee and let’s go. Are those two guys in the black velour Homburgs the ones?”
“They are.”
“Then we’ll all go and have a nice look at the procession.”
It was a fine afternoon. The air was cold but the sky was clear and blue and the sun cast strong black shadows on the dusty roadways. The pavements were crowded. It seemed as if every family in Milan were out. The men and women wore black, the small girls white, the boys and youths wore Balilla and Avanguardisti uniforms. Men selling flags and favours with portraits of Mussolini in the centre were doing a roaring trade. Corsetted young air-force men strutted about in threes and fours eyeing groups of giggling factory girls. Empty wall spaces had been decorated with stencil daubs depicting Mussolini’s head in semi-silhouette. The caffes near the route of the procession were packed with weary-looking men and women, the parents and relations of the participants in the procession, who had arrived, so Zaleshoff informed me, by special trains in the early hours of the morning. Many of the women carried squalling babies.
With some difficulty we established ourselves on the steps of an apartm
ent house in the Corso Vittorio Emanuele. The pavement in front of us was a solid mass of spectators. Beyond them, lining the route at intervals of three yards, stood armed Blackshirt militiamen, facing alternately inwards and outwards. Jammed against the wall a few yards away were the two plain-clothes detectives, pale, impassive middle-aged men, obviously of the regular police.
At last there was a faint burst of cheering in the distance. The noise of the crowd, except for a baby crying on the opposite side of the road, subsided into an expectant murmuring. Ten minutes later, amidst a roar of hand-clapping, vivas and cheering, and to the accompaniment of a dazzling display of flag-waving, the procession, led by a big military band and a drum-major with huge curling moustaches, came into view.
The Avanguardisti came first, taking themselves very seriously. They carried dummy rifles, as did the Balilla, the younger boys, who followed them. The ranks were flanked by Blackshirt standard bearers. There were also detachments of Sons of the Wolf, the Italian equivalent of Wolf Cubs, and of the two girls’ organisations, the Piccole Italiane and the Giovani Italiane. There were many bands. It was all very impressive and took over forty minutes to march into the square.
As the tail end of the procession passed, the crowd swarmed past the militiamen and across the road and surged forward towards the square.
“Come on,” muttered Zaleshoff.
We plunged into the crowd and were carried by it towards the square. Over my shoulder, I saw the detectives elbowing their way after me.
When we reached the street that runs towards the Scala we extricated ourselves from the crowd and walked slowly towards the Via Margheritta. The plain-clothes men allowed the distance between us to increase and followed, looking in shop windows as they went along and making pantomime gestures of relief at escaping from the crowd.
Zaleshoff grinned. “They must think you’re pretty dumb.”
“Why?”
“They think you still don’t know you’re being followed.
“I’ve taken care not to let them think otherwise. Besides, it’s a different couple every day. I’ve got used to it.”
