Night Journey

by Winston Graham

  I leaned forward. “Go straight back,” I said. “ Don’t bother to drive round.”

  He half turned his head and nodded. My stomach congealed and became liquid. It was not the same driver.

  Chapter Twelve

  The difference between cool action is a crisis and losing one’s head is surprisingly small.

  My first thoughts were: this is the other taxi: they’re in the limousine: you’re alone yet: don’t let them know you suspect.

  I sat on the edge of the seat and tried to swallow something in my throat as big as a billiard ball. Think. It’s your only chance. Think.

  Probably an ordinary taxi with an ordinary Italian driver acting on their instructions. Which way going? Towards the sun? South. Must act soon while car still in Milan. But going too fast to jump. Screeching but slowing at corners; broken leg better than capture.

  This the long-expected move. The zig-zag drive to the Faroni works a bad mistake; it showed I knew they were following me and therefore would not lead them to any other members of my organisation. So they’d now try their own means: persuasion by the totschiäger. Taxi door opened away from me, hinge at back, so hard to slip out of car. Suburban villas flashing past; a church, trees, a railway bridge. What if I told the man to stop? If he was not one of them he had heavily bribed.

  Car slowing. Nothing on the road ahead. Going to turn. Limousine overtaking. Quite suddenly both cars slithered to a stop abreast of each other. The jerk of the stoppage was so sudden that my hand was flung off the door handle. I grasped it again, but a man had jumped in on the other side: the wide-set eyes; the close cropped head; his revolver had a long metal silencer. “ Sit still!”

  We screamed into a rocket-like acceleration, leaving the limousine behind. The driver’s gears clashed as he would not wait for the change. The street had been empty; no one had seen. “Sit still!” said the man again.

  Perhaps that was when I lost my head, but at that moment there seemed only one thing to do. I lurched forward and got my forearm round the driver’s throat … the German did not fire put quickly reversed his revolver.

  We swivelled across the road, missing a van, jolted on the pavement, screamed alongside a wall, metal tearing, swerved away, hit the wall at an angle and crashed through it into a garden, ploughed through shrubs and turned over.

  Pain was shouting from a split in my head, and my hands were on fire.

  I tried to sit up. A lot of confused noise, people talking. My face streaming with blood. Someone had me by the arm.

  “He’s coming round,” said a voice.

  “All the same it was a nasty bang,” said another. “ Some concussion, no doubt. Also the hands. Since the ambulance is on its way for the taxi driver …”

  “Extremely kind,” said a third. “ But Signor Catania is a friend of mine. I would not think of letting him go to hospital when my home is so near.” In a lowered voice: “He is, you will understand, on important business for the Admiralty, and we do not wish it known that he is in Milan.”

  “Of course, in that case … If you will wait a few minutes he will be fit to be moved to your car.”

  “It is hardly necessary to wait. Between us we can carry him a few yards.”

  “A few minutes’ rest would be better; but if this is a matter of any urgency …”

  For a while I had been too dazed to realise what was wrong with this conversation. I now opened my eyes, and knew.

  I was still in the gardes. The liquid on my face was water not blood. Bending over me were the two Germans, about to pick me up: beyond were two strangers, Italians, one who looked like a professional man. Some others, including a woman, were exclaiming loudly about the overturned car. My sight was black with pain, and I wanted to go to sleep again.

  Hands under my arm-pits. I struggled. “ No I … I refuse! …”

  They were carrying me. I kicked.

  “Wait,” said the doctor. “He may have internal injuries. Put him down a moment.”

  “It is nothing,” said the hook-nosed German impatiently. “Some nervous aftermath of the accident. The sooner he is away from all these people the better. Rest is all he needs.”

  The doctor ignored this. “Have you any pains in the limbs? Any difficult breathing?”

  “Yes!” I said. “Pain—pain in the chest.”

  “We will get him the best medical attention,” said the tall German. “My own doctor can be with him in twenty minutes. He will be called in any case. I need some attention for bruises myself.”

  The Italian said to me: “ How do you feel now? The hospitals are busy and your friend has offered to drive you to his home. If you will allow these gentlemen to carry you to their car …”

  Someone was supporting me by the shoulders in a benevolent manner. I struck out with my hand.

  “No friend …”

  “This gentleman, I mean.”

  I tried to concentrate on the tall man, the butt end of whose Luger had done me more damage than the car accident.

  “I have never—seen him before—in my life.”

  The tall man shrugged. “You see. We were sharing the same taxi, as you know, talking together when it happened. He is still dazed, but he will be quite well after a rest.”

  The doctor was looking at me thoughtfully. I was conscious of one great asset in this argument: I spoke Italian like an Italian, they did not.

  “I would have thought perhaps a few hours’ observation …”

  “Hospital,” I said. “ Yes. Hospital.”

  Just then there was a stir among the people and I heard the word “ ambulanza”.

  “I insist,” said the big German, “that Signor Catania comes with us. As you say, the hospitals sre very busy. Besides, it is the secrecy of his business here. I have told you he will be well looked after.”

  But he had made the mistake of pressing too hard.

  “It is at my own discretion,” said the doctor. “The responsibility is mine, not yours. His name need not come out. He has expressed a wish to go to hospital——”

  “Cer-certainly,” I agreed.

  “So you see … there is no more to be said. But of course you may go with him if you wish.”

  The tall man was white with annoyance. I thought he almost might pull his gun, but instead he gave a contemptuous shrug and pushed a way out through the gathering crowd, followed by his companion. The relief of seeing them go was like a salve to my splitting head and bleeding hands. There were many worse shifts than spending a few hours in hospital. When the ambulance men came for me I was put on a stretcher and carried to the waiting car. The last I saw of the accident was s view of a broken wall and of a taxi wheel upended to the sky.

  They took me to the Ospedale Maggiore. The doctor who examined me there was an efficient and kindly man.

  “There is no serious injury that I can find. Your hands are much cut but so veins have been severed. It was one of the side-windows of the taxi, I understand. How could this accident ever have happened on a straight road?”

  “The car seemed to skid.”

  “Your head must have been hurt as the car overturned, for the injury is at the back. This too is not serious but you will need to take things easy for a day or two. I will give you an anti-tetanus injection and something so soothe your nerves.”

  “How badly is the driver injured?”

  “A broken leg and injuries to the ribs. It will be some days before he will have the pleasure of explaining to the police how it happened. He may well lose his licence. Of course with so many in the services, all sorts are permitted to apply for hire.” The doctor shot something into my arm.

  “When shall I be able to leave? I have an important appointment this evening.”

  “We’ll see. Is your chest still paining?”

  “That’s quite gone. I think it was just the shock.”

  He studied me for a minute. “ Don’t underrate this accident. Shock can be delayed as well as immediate. Drink this.”

  I sw
allowed his bitter draught. The ward was full, for a number of patients had been drafted in here to make room for air-raid casualties.

  One of the nuns came by, and the doctor said: “A light meal if he wakes, but I don’t think he will. I’ll see him again to-morrow morning.”

  “Was that a sleeping draught?” I asked in sudden alarm. He nodded. “You are very much on edge. It’s a precaution and soothes the nerves. You will sleep for a little while and then be better.”

  “Sleep how long? I must be awake by five!”

  “Naturally, my friend. You’ll be awake before then. But be quiet now. I’ll be around early in the morning.”

  I looked after him; he was talking to the nun as they walked away. My watch. It was just noon. I must wake at five. My head was heavy but no with the cracking heaviness of half an hour ago. My hands were bandaged and soothed. I must wake at five. That seemed a comforting long way off. I began to feel relaxed. For the moment I was safe. My eyelids drooned and I went to sleep.

  A nun wheeling a trolley. There were dim lights in the ward, and someone was groaning down at the other end. I was interested in nothing. My eyelids closed again; soft pillows of sleep pressed down. Falling through resilient feathery clouds. What had Andrews said? A ham-tomato omelette. The sirens had gone and I must warn Jane Howard. But if there was an explosion Dr von Riehl would be left alone to manufacture the improved gas. The bells of the Campanile were only to ring if there was an invasion, if the Germans got across the Channel.

  I opened one eye again. What had Andrews said? They were going to operate on Jane Howard for espionage. Silly … espionage not a disease. What was it? Andrews kept a shop in Milan. The name was Lorenzo. Not Andrews but Manuel Lorenzo. Not espionage. Lorenzo.

  I struggled into a sitting position. “ Listen, what time is it?”

  The young nun came slowly over. “ Lie down and go to sleep: it is quite early yet.”

  “I must know the time! What is it?”

  “About six.”

  “Six!” I fought against nausea and a bursting head. “ I must get up? Where are my clothes?”

  She looked alarmed; she was very young. “You must not get up without the permission of a doctor! Abbiate cura! You will injure yourself!”

  I was out of bed, on my knees, fighting the need to vomit, groping under the bed for a parcel of clothing which might be there.

  “Be quiet, can’t you?” said the man in the next bed. “My stomach is paining, and I can’t get any rest with this going on.”

  “I’ll fetch a doctor,” said the nurse, and fled.

  I found the parcel, pulled it out, rested my head for a few seconds against the blanket. Thick furry ropes of sickness we pulling at my throat.

  “He’s delirious!” said the man in the next bed. “They should get someone quickly; he might get violent. I couldn’t do anything, not with my stomach.”

  I sat back on the bed, fumbled with the wrappings of the parcel: It was the effects of the sleeping draught. And the bandages on my hands made every finger a thumb. At last I got the string away: shirt, tie, pants, trousers, everything here, except what had been in the pockets.

  The girl was some time in coming back, and by then I had struggled into some of the things. Not a doctor but an older nun with her. I lay back against the bed-rail, taking deep breaths.

  “What is this? You cannot begin to get up until——”

  “Please listen, Sister!” I had been gathering my faculties for this. “Through … motor accident this morning I was brought in here. Deeply appreciate your attention and care. But I must leave to-night. Quite essential. I am attached to the Admiralty and have important report to make. This is wartime and … this is wartime …”

  My mind went blank; temporarily I’d lost the crux of the argument.

  “The report can be sent,” she said. “ We can telephone and tell them of your accident.”

  “That wouldn’t do … confidential and must not commit is to writing. This is wartime and …” The words came, “… and you would not refuse a soldier permission to deliver an important message because of a trifling injury?”

  I saw hesitation in her eyes. “ You are suffering from concussion. In the doctor’s judgement——”

  “Quite recovered. The sleeping draught has left me a little heavy in the head, that is all. If you could help me to dress … my wallet and watch.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “ Oh, very well, sir, if you wish it. We must not, as you say, hinder the war. But I think you are unwise. I will see that one of the sisters goes with you.”

  “Extremely kind.” I went on dressing in clumsy haste. If it were already six … “I wonder … might I have a drink of something?” Nausea returning.

  The water revived me, and my watch when it came was another goad. Fifteen minutes past six.

  Formalities of departure took too long: forms to sign, records of discharge to file: it must have been six-thirty by the time I stood on the threshold of the hospital looking for a taxi, with a middle-aged nun holding my arm.

  Of course there was no taxi and I waited in a fever of impatience. The sun had set by now and the short twilight was rapidly fading. It was no real distance to walk, but I stood there fuming, knowing as every minute ticked away that if a taxi would only come …

  In the end I could wait no longer. The nun came with me as far as the Via Ospedale, where the traffic was at its busiest; people hurrying home before the difficulties of the black-out; but there, with still no taxi appearing, she hesitated, and I said, no, I would do well enough on my own. I thought I would be slightly less conspicuous, even bandaged as I was, without the company of a nun (everyone stared), and I was unwilling anyhow to let her come the whole way.

  But after she had gone I realised that things were still not good. In he Piazza San Stefano all the traffic suddenly blurred, and I leaned against a lamp standard. My head had seemed to open a great mouth at the back and suck in a gust of ice-cold air. I gritted my teeth and waited, barely conscious, until the worst was past.

  “You are sick, signore?” A man stopped solicitously. “You were hurt in the air-raid? Why do you not go into the church and sit down?”

  “Nothing.” I said. “ Slight indisposition. Have you … a cigarette?”

  He gave me one, and I thanked him and drew at it uncertainly. Others had stopped, and to save a crowd I moved on. At the entrance to the Via Beccaria I stopped, dropped the cigarette, saw it roll across the pavement, wondered if I could bend to pick it up. Darkness was falling.

  A car drew up beside me. “ Taxi, signore?”

  At last. Just in time. Even now——

  With a hand on the door of the car I stopped. Something had gone wrong the last time I took a taxi. With an effort I remembered what it was.

  I withdrew my hand. The taxi appeared to be swaying.

  A hand gripped my hand. “Let me help you in.”

  He was a tall dark man with a fleshy self-confident face. I remembered him as a bystander at the accident.

  Something was pressing into my side. As I opened my mouth a hand went over it. At this my knees, completely gave way, and my sudden dead weight pulled away from the hands that held me. I collapsed on the pavement and lay full length. A woman saw me and screamed. A man stood over me, but I shouted at the top of my voice. The taxi drew sharply away.

  People crowded round. I lay still and gasped and groaned. The man had gone. A policeman was crossing the steeet.

  “A dispute over a taxi,” said the woman who had screamed. “I saw them quarrelling and this one fell!”

  “He is injured! He is dying!”

  “What is the matter? Why has the taxi gone?”

  I half sat up, and then was helped to my feet. Voices and faces jostled each other.

  “It was nothing,” I said to the policeman. “As the lady said. A man claimed he had hailed it first. He pushed me and I fell … I have been in hospital with air-raid injuries.”

  There was a murmu
r of sympathy.

  “Where is the man?” said the policeman. “ Which way did he go?”

  No one knew.

  “Perhaps he took the taxi. Do you wish to make a statement?”

  “No, no, certainly not. It is quite unimportant.”

  It took some minutes to find another taxi—they were not really allowed to cruise for fares—and I was helped in, half fainting in the darkaess.”

  “Where do you wish to go?” asked the policeman.

  “Lorenzo & Co., Via Monte Rosa II.”

  The door slammed. Grey streets and odd lights flittered past. If this was the fake taxi then I was done. It might just have driven round a block.

  I stared out. Nothing to be seen of the hotels in the Corso Vittorio Emanuele. Trams clanging. It was dark. Sounding of horns. Perhaps this was the end.

  But not quite. The taxi stopped and the driver opened the door.

  “See here. Lorenzo & Co. That will be eight lire.”

  I gave him ten before getting out. The street was quieter than expected, but it was the right place. No mistake. There was the name of the shop over the door in gilt letters.

  My knees were holding better. I glanced along the way we had come and saw another taxi moving very slowly towards us, practically kerb crawling. So they had not lost the scent. I hoped the arrangements to receive me were adequate for this sort of emergency. I hoped, whatever they were, tha they did not require any more exertion on my part to-night. All I wanted was a drink and to lie down.

  My own taxi turned round and made off the way it had come. The other car was still a hundred metres away and still slowly approaching. I turned and walked unsteadily but with confidence up to the door of the shop.

  But the shop was shut.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Of all the moments of this nasty day, this was the darkest and bitterest of them all. To reach your promised bolt-hole and to find it closed against you, to be trapped and ill and alone, and darkness falling.