Cause for Alarm (33 page)

“Oh yes, General.” I hesitated and looked at him rather furtively. “With regard to the matter we discussed in the car that night, I should like some assurance that the information concerning my employers’ business will not be used in any way … er … prejudicial.”

A glint of amusement appeared for an instant in his eyes; but he assured me gravely enough that I need have no fears.

“Can I persuade you to have dinner with me, Mr. Marlow?” he added.

“I should like to, General, but I am leaving for London in the morning and I have some letters to write. I feel sure you will excuse me.”

It was feeble enough as an excuse, but he nodded. Clearly, he had not expected me to accept.

“A pity. However”—he held out his hand—“
bon voyage
, Mr. Marlow, and thank you. My wife will be sorry that she missed you.”

I almost jumped. Was it possible that the man did not know of his wife’s death? Then I realised that the statement was a trap. I had said that I had not seen the Italian papers. I ought not to know that his wife was dead, that she had killed herself. He was grasping my hand, and I was afraid for a moment that he might have felt the involuntary contraction of my muscles. That was, of course, why he had taken my hand before he had mentioned his wife.

I managed to keep my voice level. “Please convey my respects to Madame Vagas.”

Then a curious thing happened. Before this, I had not seen him in the daylight. His
maquillage
was not as heavy as that which he wore at night. Now, as his cheeks creased momentarily into the first genuine smile I had seen on his face, I saw
that beneath the paint his face was pock-marked.

The smile was gone; but when he spoke his voice held laughter, the laughter of a man who is enjoying a good joke.

“I shall do my best to convey your respects to my wife, Mr. Marlow,” he said deliberately; “I shall make a point of doing so next time I see her.
A rivederci
.”

I fumbled with the door-knob. I was feeling slightly sick.

“Good night, General.”

As the door shut behind me I heard him laugh.

I got my hat from my room and went downstairs on my way to report to Zaleshoff. I was not sure that I had not been made a fool of. Then, as I stopped by the desk to leave my key, I heard something which made me change my mind. The telephone stood adjacent to the clerk’s desk and I heard the operator repeat the word “Berlin” twice and then “
danke
.” Someone in the hotel was putting a call through to Berlin.

I turned to the clerk.

“I wonder if that Berlin call would be for me,” I said in Italian.

“What name, Signore?”

“Marlow.”

He turned to the operator and said something to her in German. I did not understand her actual reply, but two things I did understand. One was her impatient shake of the head, the other was the name “Herr Vagas.” That was enough.

“No, Signore,” said the clerk; “it is not for you.”

The following morning Zaleshoff and Tamara saw me off on the Paris train.

We were standing on the platform with about two minutes to go when I remembered something that I had forgotten to ask him.

“Zaleshoff, what did you mean the other morning when you said that you were more worried by what that paper didn’t print than what it did?”

It was Tamara who answered. “He was afraid that they might have detained me. He’s always afraid for me.”

“I see.” I hesitated. Then: “Look here, I’ve got a finicking sort of mind. Do you mind telling me exactly what you did with those queer files of yours. You surely didn’t leave them for the police to find and I really can’t see how you could burn such a mass of paper without attracting attention.”

They looked uncomfortable.

“Well,” said Zaleshoff airily, “those were Saponi’s old files.”

“But what about those cards that …” I stopped. I was beginning to understand. “I suppose,” I went on slowly, “that it wouldn’t be that the two cards I saw, Ferning’s and Vagas’, were the only two cards there were?”

For once Zaleshoff had nothing to say. I nodded grimly. “I see.”

Just then the whistle blew and I climbed into the train. They were both standing on the platform, looking up at me. The girl was smiling, but Zaleshoff’s jaw was stuck out defiantly. I wanted suddenly to laugh at him. The train began to move.

I leaned down.

“Don’t forget to send me a postcard from Moscow.”

They had begun to walk along by the side of the train.

Suddenly he grinned. “I will,” he called back; “that is, if I ever get around to the place.”

And then, as the train gathered speed, he began to run. Almost immediately he cannoned into a porter’s trolley; but he scrambled to his feet again and ran on. When I last saw him he was standing on the end of the platform waving a bright red handkerchief after me. No, you could not help liking Zaleshoff.

I spent two days with Claire before I went up to Wolverhampton.

When I had arrived, there had been a letter waiting for me. It was from Hallett. In it were the five pounds which he had borrowed from me just before I had left for Italy and, more important, the offer of a job under him with his new employers. Having telephoned my grateful acceptance, I travelled north armed.

I saw Fitch first. He greeted me with gloomy enthusiasm.

“The bottom’s out of the export market,” he said; “and, of course, just as we’d got hold of a really good man to handle the Milan end, this had to happen. It beats me, Marlow. We’ve been using that special appropriation ever since we started over there. Ferning never had any trouble. Some new broom, I expect. We were pretty worried about you. Did you have any trouble getting out?”

“Well, it was a bit awkward because they had my passport. But I made for the Yugo-Slav side and sneaked out across the frontier.”

“And you heard nothing about it in Yugo-Slavia, I gather. Well, all’s well that ends well, I suppose. But where we stand now, I don’t know. I don’t see how the ice-creamers could wriggle out of their contracts with us even if they wanted to. Pelcher’s going over in a few days to straighten things out. Everyone here is doing well except the export department,” he went on sombrely; “we’ve started supplying the shadow factories. Pelcher’s very pleased.”

“What does he think about this Milan business?”

“He says that it’s the fortune of war. I don’t quite know what he means, but he’s stuck that label on to it, so there we are. You’ll find him very cheerful. Apart from the shadow factories, he’s had a spirit level let into the head of his new driver, and reckons that it’s going to bring his handicap down to eighteen. He thinks it’ll be worth nearly a stroke a hole to him; but, as I told him, even if St. Andrew’s would permit
it, it’s not the club head but the ball that he ought to keep his eyes on. He’ll never make a golfer.”

Soon the message came that Mr. Pelcher was disengaged and would see me.

His reception of me was overwhelming. He pressed me into a chair, ordered tea, and gave me a cigar. Then he sat back, tugging at his collar and beaming while I repeated once more the prepared version of my experiences.

“Well, Mr. Marlow,” he said breezily when I had finished, “I must congratulate you on extricating yourself from a very difficult position with skill and discretion. Frankly, we were a little worried until we heard from you; but, as I said to Fitch, I had considerable faith in your tact. There was never, I felt, any
real
cause for alarm.”

“It is very kind of you to say so.”

“And now,” he went on, “we must think of the future. It is out of the question for you to return to Italy.”

“Utterly, I am afraid.”

“Ah well—the fortune of war, you know.” He tugged at his collar. “Let me see now. Fitch badly needs an assistant and I dare say …”

“One moment, Mr. Pelcher,” I interrupted. “I think I should tell you now that I have been offered and have accepted the post of production engineer to one of the Cator & Bliss branch factories. Perhaps I should have told you before. I am afraid that I assumed …”

“That we should let you down?” He looked hurt, but I could see the relief in his eyes.

“Not exactly that, Sir; but I have come to the conclusion that I am far more suited to a works job.”

“Once an engineer always an engineer, eh? Well, I can sympathise with that.” For a moment I thought I saw a shadow cross his face; but that was, no doubt, my imagination. He stood up. “Well, my boy, we shall be sorry to lose you so soon, but, of course, we can’t stand in your way. And
besides,” he added jovially, “we’ve just started supplying S2 machines to Cator & Bliss. You won’t be losing touch with us altogether, eh?”

“It’s very good of you to put it like that.”

“Nonsense, my dear chap! You’ll fix the financial details with Fitch, of course. You might spend some of your remaining time with us making him familiar with the Milan details so that he can give me a report. Meanwhile”—he held out his hand—“let me wish you the very best of luck.” We shook hands warmly. I thanked him again. We walked towards the door.

“By the way,” he said suddenly, “I’d like to have your technical opinion on my new driver. Fitch is sceptical; but then you know what these scratch golfers are. You don’t play, so I think you’ll see the beauty of the idea.”

I had dinner with Fitch. It was dark when I left Wolverhampton. I shared a compartment with a well-dressed, beefy man who sat under an enormous suitcase perched rather precariously on the rack. Tied to the handle was a travel agency label. For a while he read a Birmingham paper. I looked out of the window. Then, in the distance, I saw the glow of blast furnaces.

The paper rustled. “Nice to see them working like that again, isn’t it?” he remarked.

“Yes, very.”

“Are you a Birmingham man?”

“No.”

“We’re not doing so badly up here. Can’t turn the stuff out fast enough.”

“That must be very heartening.”

“Yes. I’m off on a tour, through Italy. First class all the way after London, and all tips included in the ticket. No need to worry about the lingo either.”

“It sounds good.”

“I was there for a day or two last Easter. It’s a fine place
for a holiday is Italy. Now that Mussolini’s on the job, the trains run nearly as good as ours. You ought to try it.”

I settled back in my corner. I was feeling tired.

“I’m afraid,” I said, “that Italy would be a little too hot for me.”

He nodded understandingly. “Yes, there are some people who can’t stand the heat. My late wife was like that. Either you can stand it or you can’t. It’s just the way you’re made, I always say.”

T
HERE
follows a short extract from an article which appeared in a French periodical during the summer of the year in which the events described by Mr. Nicholas Marlow occurred. The title of the article was
The Shifting Sands of Europe
.

“… any assessment … of the situation must be based on the knowledge gained during the past few weeks.

“Several factors have operated to produce the present easement of tension. The first and most potent has been the hardening of American financial opinion in relation to possible aggressor states. The clear expression by responsible persons of the opinion that, from the point of view of capital,
a falsified national balance sheet is no better for being national instead of private, was timely. The second has been the decision with which the Anglo-French
bloc
has functioned now that misunderstandings have been disposed of. A third influence has been the unexpected coolness which has developed lately between two partners of the Axis. The cause is understood to be of a military nature and to concern the Brenner Pass. The details are obscure, but it appears that the mutual assurances given in Rome not so long ago have not proved as durable as had been expected by the parties concerned.

“This much is clear. Extended co-operation on the part of the three great European democracies, France, Great Britain and our ally, Soviet Russia, backed by the moral support of the United States, would be an irresistible force for peace. But …”

BACKGROUND TO DANGER

Kenton’s career as a journalist depended on his exceptional facility with languages, his knowledge of European politics, and his quick judgment. Where his judgment sometimes failed him was in his personal life. When he finds himself on a train bound for Austria after a bad night of gambling, he eagerly takes an opportunity to earn money helping a refugee smuggle securities across the border. He soon discovers that the documents he holds have more than monetary value, and that European politics has more twists and turns than the most convoluted newspaper account.

Fiction/Suspense

CAUSE FOR ALARM

Nicky Marlow needs a job. He’s engaged to be married and the employment market is pretty slim in Britain in 1937. So when his fiancée points out the Italian Spartacus Machine Tool notice, he jumps at the chance. After all, he speaks Italian and can endure Milan long enough to save some money. Soon after he arrives, though, he learns the sinister truth of his predecessor’s death and finds himself courted by two agents with dangerously different agendas. In the process, Marlow realizes it’s not so simple just to do the job he’s paid to do in fascist Italy on the brink of war.