Cause for Alarm (21 page)

Two streets away, in the Via Oriani, we came upon a large Fiat limousine standing with its engine running. Inside it was
Zaleshoff. As we came up, he got out.

“All right?” he asked the girl.

“All right. Couldn’t be better. They won’t be able to get this side for another three-quarters of an hour at least.”

“Good.” He nodded to me. “Nice work. Hop in.”

I got in the back and he followed me. The girl got into the driving-seat.

Reaction had set in. For some reason I had begun to shake from head to foot.

Zaleshoff offered me a cigarette. I took it.

“Well,” I said acidly, “what do we do from now until half-past ten to-night? Hide?”

He lit his own cigarette and stretched himself luxuriously on the cushions. “Now,” he said comfortably, “we’re going to enjoy ourselves. Step on it, Tamara.”

We drove out along the
autostrada
to Como, went for a trip on a lake steamer and had dinner at a restaurant overlooking the lake. I enjoyed myself enormously. The sun had only just gone down by the time we had finished our dinner and for a time we sat out on the terrace drinking our coffee and smoking.

The stars were almost dazzlingly bright. At one end of the terrace there was a clump of cypresses looking like thick black fingers against the blue-black sky. There was a smell of pine resin in the air. I had forgotten about my companions and was thinking of Claire, wishing that she had been there, when Zaleshoff spoke.

“What are you going to do when you get back to England?”

I came out of my trance and looked towards him. I could see his shadow and that of the girl and two cigarette tips glowing.

“How did you know I was going back to England?”

I sensed rather than saw his shrug. “I guessed from your
manner. There’s been an atmosphere of suspended animation about it.” He paused. “This business has kind of taken the heart out of the Spartacus job, hasn’t it?”

“This business and other things.” I felt suddenly that I wanted to talk to someone about it; but all I did was to ask a question. “Do you know a man named Commendatore Bernabò?”

“The guy you bribed to get that machinery order?”

I jumped. That was something about which I had
not
gone into details with Zaleshoff.

“Yes, that’s the man. But I didn’t tell you
that
either.”

“These things get around. Bribery’s an old Italian custom.”

“There are a lot of old Italian customs I don’t like.”

He chuckled. “For a business man, you’re a bit fussy, aren’t you?”

“I’m not a business man. I’m an engineer.”

“Ah yes. I was forgetting. My apologies.”

“Besides, I still have a bruise or two on my body.” I hesitated. “I suppose I shall have to get another job.”

“Making shells instead of selling the machinery for making them?”

“There
are
other things for an engineer to make.”

“Sure!” He paused again. “I thought you told me that you only took the job because you couldn’t get anything better.”

“I read in a trade paper yesterday that there’s a shortage of skilled engineers at the moment.”

I heard him blow smoke out of his mouth. “Yes, I read that article too.”

“
You
read it?”

“I read a lot of things. That article was, if I remember, based on the statement made by the managing director of an armament firm, wasn’t it?”

To my annoyance, I felt myself blushing. I was glad that it was dark.

“What of it?” I said indifferently. “Someone’s got to do the job.”

He laughed, but without good humour. “The stock reply according to the gospel of King Profit. Industry has no other end or purpose than the satisfaction of the business man engaged in it. Demand is sacred. It may be a demand for high explosives to slaughter civilians with or one for chemical fertilisers, it may be for shells or it may be for saucepans, it may be for jute machinery for an Indian sweat-shop or it may be for prams, it’s all one. There’s no difference. Your business man has no other responsibility but to make profits for himself and his shareholders.”

“All that’s nothing to do with me.”

“Of course it isn’t,” he rejoined sarcastically, “you’re only the guy that makes it possible. But you also may be the guy that gets squashed to a paste when those shells and high explosives start going off—you and your wife and kids.”

“I haven’t got a wife and kids,” I said sullenly.

“So what?”

“Damn it, Zaleshoff, I’ve got to eat. If there’s a shortage of skilled engineers and I’m a skilled engineer, what do you expect me to do? Get up on a soap box?”

“In a year’s time, my dear Marlow, the same trade paper will be telling you that there are too many skilled engineers. Too many or too few—too much or too little—empty stomachs or overfed ones—the old, old story. When are you English going to do something about it?”

“Are you speaking as an American or a Russian?”

“What difference does it make? Isn’t it common-sense to replace an old, bad system with a better one?”

“You mean Socialism?”

I must have said it derisively for he laughed and did not answer.

“The moon’s rising,” said Tamara suddenly. I looked. A
curved sliver of yellow light was visible above the trees.

“Picture postcard,” commented Zaleshoff; “but good picture postcard.” He got up. “It’s time we went.”

We paid the bill and in silence began to walk back to where we had left the Fiat. The way lay down a lighted road. We were about half-way down it when, without thinking, I looked over my shoulder.

“No,” murmured Zaleshoff, “they’re not there. We left them behind in Milan.”

“I wasn’t …” I began. Then I stopped. He was right. I had got used to the idea of being followed. Things, I reflected bitterly, had come to a pretty pass. I had a sudden nostalgia for home, for London. I would go home next week, get away out of this miserable atmosphere of double-dealing, of intrigue, of violence. It would be fine to see Claire. The night I got back we would go to the Chinese place to eat. You didn’t get a moon or stars like this in London, but there you weren’t followed by Italian detectives in Homburg hats. The Boy Scouts didn’t march as well as the
Balilla
, but there were no loudspeakers to bawl stuff at them about the beauties of war.

And then, for no particular reason, I found myself thinking of something Hallett had once said. It had been after lunch and we had been looking at some newspaper photographs of a Nazi mass demonstration. I had made some comment about the efficiency of German propaganda methods. He had laughed. “It’s efficient because it’s got to be. The British governing class never has that particular worry. In England, people read their newspapers and kid
themselves
.” But then, as I was always reminding myself when I thought of things Hallett had said, the man was a Socialist. And Zaleshoff I believed to be a Communist, a Bolshevik agent. It was time that I pulled myself together and behaved like a reasonable being. It was sheer lunacy to go through with this plan of Zaleshoff’s.

I had had one very forcible warning. Next time I should no doubt be dealt with in the same way as Ferning had been dealt with. I made up my mind.

“By the way,” I said, as I got into the car, “I’ve decided to call this business off this evening.” As I said it I felt ashamed. But there was, I told myself, no other way.

Zaleshoff had been about to follow me into the car. He stopped. The girl turned her head and giggled.

“A bad joke, Mr. Marlow; but then I always said the English sense of humour was distinctly …”

“Just a minute, Tamara.” Zaleshoff’s voice was quiet enough, but the words were like drips of ice-cold water. “You
are
joking, aren’t you, Marlow?”

“No.” It was all I could manage.

“A bad joke, indeed!” he said slowly. He got in the car and sat down heavily beside me. “May one inquire the reason for this sudden decision?”

I found my tongue. “Put yourself in my position, Zaleshoff. I’ve got everything to lose by doing this and nothing to gain. I …”

“Just a minute, Marlow. Listen to me. I give you my solemn word that in doing this you are not only helping your own country considerably but also millions of other Europeans. The other day you asked me what the devil this had to do with me. That I cannot explain to you for reasons that you, I fancy, may have a shrewd notion about. You must take my word for it that I am on the side of the angels. And by angels I don’t mean British and French statesmen and bankers and industrialists. I mean the people of those countries and of my own, the people who can resist the forces that have beaten the people of Italy and Germany to their knees. That’s all.”

I hesitated. I hesitated miserably. At last: “It’s no use, Zaleshoff,” I muttered, “it just isn’t worth my while to do it.”

“It isn’t worth your while?” he echoed. Then he laughed. “I thought you said you
weren’t
a big business man, Mister Marlow!”

Towards eleven o’clock I drove slowly along the
autostrada
away from Milan. I had left Zaleshoff and the girl at a
caffè
a mile back; but Zaleshoff’s final instructions were still churning round inside my head. “Fight him tooth and nail. Be as angry as you like. But for goodness’ sake don’t forget to give in.”

The April sky was now clouded over. It was warm enough inside the car, but I found myself shivering a little. I found that my foot kept easing gradually off the accelerator. Then I saw ahead two red lights close together.

Although I had been expecting to see them, they made me start. I slowed down and switched on the headlights. It was a large car, well into the side under some bushes overhanging the road from the embankment above. I switched off the headlights, drew up a few yards behind it and waited. Then I saw General Vagas get out and walk back towards me.

T
HE
manner of the General’s greeting was that of a man ruefully amused at the antics of a rather troublesome child.

“Good evening, Mr. Marlow.”

“Good evening, General. You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I did. But this”—he waved his hand expressively at our surroundings and broke off—“I hope your taste for the melodramatic is satisfied?”

“I do not like melodrama any more than you do, General,” I retorted. “I was anxious only to be discreet.”

In the reflected light from the lamp on the instrument board I saw his thick lips twist humorously.

“A very desirable anxiety, Mr. Marlow. You must forgive me if I find the result a trifle exaggerated.”

“You wanted to see me?” I repeated.

“Yes.” But he was evidently determined to take his time. “I understand that you secured the Commendatore’s contract.”

“I did. I trust that you were satisfied with my efforts to return the compliment?”

“Quite.” He hesitated. “But it was on that subject that I wanted to speak to you.”

“Yes?”

He peered inside the car.

“Ah, leather seats! I think that my car is a little more comfortable than yours. Supposing we go and sit in it.”

“I find this one quite comfortable.”

He sighed. “I don’t seem to sense that atmosphere of mutual confidence and respect that I am most anxious should surround our relations, Mr. Marlow. However”—he opened the door—“I hope that you will not mind if I get in and sit beside you. The night air in the country is cold and my chest is delicate.” He coughed gently to emphasise the point.

“By all means, get in.”

“Thank you.” He got in, shut the door and sniffed the air. “A cigar, Mr. Marlow, and a very bad one. Really, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of tobacco.”

Inwardly I twitched with annoyance. The smell of the atrocious weed Zaleshoff had smoked on the way back from Como still clung to the upholstery. I muttered an apology.

“I have some English cigarettes, if you would prefer one.”

“I would. Thank you.” He took one, lit it at the match I held out to him and inhaled deeply. He blew the smoke out slowly and gently. I waited in silence.

“Mr. Marlow,” he said suddenly, “something a little unfortunate has happened.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. Something that, quite frankly, I feel almost ashamed to tell you.”

“Oh?”

His manner became that of a man who had decided on a policy of complete candour. “I will put all my cards on the table, Mr. Marlow. You may remember that when we originally discussed this arrangement at my house, a figure of two thousand lire a month was mentioned.”

“Naturally I remember.”

“Subsequently, I mentioned another figure, three thousand lire a month, which was the figure finally agreed upon.”

I uttered a non-committal “Yes.” I was puzzled. This was nothing like any of the gambits I had anticipated.

He tapped my knee. “What I did not tell you at the time, Mr. Marlow, was this. That it was entirely upon my own responsibility that I increased the figure from two to three thousand lire.”

I said, “I see.” But I didn’t see. I was extremely confused. I began to wonder if Zaleshoff had perhaps made a mistake or taken too much for granted in supposing that Vagas’ object in seeking this meeting was blackmail. After a pause, he went on.

“You will understand my feelings in the matter, Mr. Marlow. I was anxious to secure your collaboration. It seemed to me that, in acting as I did, I was representing my country’s interests to the best of my ability.” There was the reproachful tone of the upright man unjustly accused in his voice as he continued. “Judge then of my chagrin, Mr. Marlow, I might almost say of my disgust”—he lingered over the word—“when I was advised several days ago that my principals in Belgrade could not agree to the arrangement I had made.”

“Yes, of course.” Now, I thought that I understood. Zaleshoff
had
been wrong. This was nothing more nor less than an attempt to go back on a bargain.

He sighed heavily. “I don’t think I need tell you, Mr. Marlow, that I was annoyed. I got into touch immediately with
Belgrade and protested vigorously. I put it to them as an affair of honour. But to no purpose. They were adamant.” He became confidential. “Between ourselves, Mr. Marlow, I have very little patience with these permanent officials who sit in Government offices. They are invariably intransigent, narrow in outlook and absurdly parsimonious. I am only a simple soldier, a simple soldier anxious to do his duty as he sees it, but I can assure you, Mr. Marlow, that there are times when I feel my loyalty sorely tried.”