The Angry Mountain (7 page)

He stared at me. “What about Tu
č
ek?” he asked. He didn't trust me. I could see that.

“Jan Tu
č
ek was arrested on Thursday,” I told him. “Maxwell got him away to Bory airfield that night. Tu
č
ek and a senior Czech air force officer flew out in an Anson trainer. They should have arrived at Milan early yesterday morning.”

“I don't believe a word of it,” he said.

“I'm not interested whether you believe me or not,” I exclaimed angrily. “Maxwell asked me to see you when I got to Milan and tell you to notify him whether or not they'd arrived. He's afraid they may have crashed since they were told to contact you immediately on arrival and he's not heard from you.”

He fired a lot of questions at me then. At length he said, “Why the devil didn't you give me that message at the airfield?”

“Your own attitude made it impossible,” I answered.

“What were you doing in Pilsen?”

I told him.

“Have you any proof that you represent this machine tool company?”

He was still suspicious.

“Yes,” I said. “But you'll bloody well have to take my word for it.”

“All right,” he said. “I'll start checking up. But I warn you, if I find you're playing some game of your own—”
He turned on his heel, and then stopped. “And keep clear of Alice whilst you're here.” He went back to his sister then. He bent over her for a moment, talking to her, then with a quick glance at me, he hurried out of the lounge.

I went over to the table. Again I was conscious of her gaze on my leg. She began to put the tea things together as though she were going to carry them out herself. As she didn't speak I said, “How long will you be in Milan?”

“Not long,” she said. “I am going to Rapallo and then to stay with some friends of Alec's at Cannes.”

“I hope you have a nice time,” I murmured.

“The sun will be nice, and I think we shall enjoy ourselves.” Her voice was barely audible. Then she suddenly said: “Please go now, Dick.”

I nodded. “Yes. I'll go now. Good-bye then.”

“Good-bye.”

She didn't look up. I went back to my table and collected my things. As I passed her on the way out she didn't look at me. She was staring out of the window. I hesitated in the doorway. But she made no sign and I went up to my room.

They were gone next morning. I don't know what hotel they went to. All I know is that I didn't see them at breakfast and when I inquired at the reception desk I was told they had left.

It was useless trying to do any business that day. It was Sunday. So I went for a walk. Spring had come to Milan. The sun shone out of a cloudless sky and the wide tram-lined streets blazed with warmth. There were tables out on the pavements and some cafés even had their awnings down. I walked up the Via Vittor Pisani and into the Giardini Pubblici. I was thinking of nothing but the fact that the girls were in summer frocks and that the olive-skinned, laughing crowds looked gay and happy. The mystery of Tu
č
ek's disappearance and my encounter with the Czech security police seemed very far away, part of another world. In the gardens the trees were showing young green. Everything
was bursting with life. I sat down on one of the seats and let the warmth of the sun seap through me. It was wonderful just to sit there and relax. To-morrow there would be work to do. But to-day, all I had to do was sit in the sunshine.

I always remember that hour I spent sitting in the Giardini Pubblici. It stands out in my mind like an oasis in a desert. It was my one breathing space—a moment that seems almost beautiful because it had no part in what had gone before or what came after. I remember there was a little girl and a big yellow rubber ball. She followed it relentlessly, teeth flashing, black hair gleaming and her dark eyes bubbling with laughter. And her mother sat suckling a baby discreetly under a shawl and telling me how she hoped to go to Genoa for a holiday this year. And all the time Milan streamed by, their gay clothes and constant, liquid chatter seeming so lighthearted after the sombre atmosphere of Czechoslovakia. It was like listening to Rossini after a course of Wagner.

Feeling warm and happy I went out into the Viale Vittorio Veneto and sat for a while at one of the café tables drinking cognac. I sat there till twelve-thirty, reviving my Italian by listening to scraps of the conversation that flowed around me. Then I went back to the hotel. As I crossed the entrance hall towards the lift the clerk at the reception desk called me over, “Signor Farrell.”

“Yes?” I said.

“I have a message for you.” He pulled a slip of paper out of the pigeonhole marked F. “Signor Sismondi telephone half an hour ago to say will you ring him please.” He handed me the slip of paper on which was scribbled a telephone number and the name Sismondi.

“Who is he—do you know?” I asked.

“Signor Sismondi? I think perhaps it is Signor Riccardo Sismondi. He have a big
fabbrica
out on the Via Padova, signore.”

“What's the name of his company?” I asked.

“I do not know if it is the same man, signore. But the one I speak of is
direttore
of the Ferrometali di Milano.”

I went up to my room and got my notebook with the list of Italian firms with which B. & H. Evans had done business before the war. Among them I found the Ferrometalli di Milano. I picked up the telephone and asked for Sismondi's number. A woman's voice answered. “
Casa Sismondi. Chi Parla?
”

“This is Mr. Farrell,” I answered. “Can I speak to Signor Sismondi?”

“
Un momento
.” Very faintly I heard the woman's voice call “Riccardo.” Then a man's voice came on the wire, rather harsh and grating. “Signor Farrell?
Bene
. You know who I am per'aps?”

“Ferrometalli di Milano?” I asked.

“
Sì, sì, signore,
I do business with your company before the war. I hear you arrive in Milano yesterday—from Pilsen?”

“That's correct,” I murmured.

“Do you see Signor Tu
č
ek of the Tu
č
kovy ocelárny while you are in Pilsen?”

It was the suddenness of the question that rattled me. I hadn't expected it. I naturally thought he'd rung me on business. Instead he was asking me about Tu
č
ek. The happy, laughing Milan I'd walked through that morning faded in my mind. I felt as though a long arm had been stretched out across the borders of Czechoslovakia, to fetch me back into the clutches of the Czech security police.

“Ullo, ‘ullo, signore. Are you there plees?” The voice sounded impatient—harsher and more grating.

“Yes?” I said.

“I ask you do you see Signor Tu
č
ek when you are in Pilsen?”

“Yes.”

“You are a friend of his per'aps—from the war?”

“Yes,” I said. “Why?”

“And he know you are coming to Milano?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then per'aps all is not lost.”

“Look,” I said. “Do you mind telling me what this is all about?”

“Very well. I tell you. I am a business friend of Signor Tu
č
ek. Things are very bad for him in Czechoslovakia. He intend to leave the country and we are going into business together with a new factory ‘ere in Milano. I am expecting him ‘ere for three days now. But he do not arrive. I am very worried, Signor Farrell.”

“What's this got to do with me?” I asked him.

“I tell you. We are to start a new business together. He is bringing with him specifications of some new types of machines we are to produce. On Friday I receive a letter from him to say that he will not bring them himself. It is too dangerous. He give them to an Englishman who fly to Milano the next day. I have checked with the airport, Signor Farrell. You are the only Englishman who arrives from Czechoslovakia since I receive his letter.”

“And you think I've a package for you from Tu
č
ek?” I asked.

“No, no. I think per'aps you have a package as you say to deliver to Tu
č
ek here. But Tu
č
ek is not ‘ere. He do not arrive. It is terrible. I do not know what is happened. But business is business, Signor Farrell, and I have special workers ready waiting to begin the building of the tools to make these new machines. If I could plees have the specifications—”

“But I haven't got any package for you,” I told him.

“No?” The voice had risen a shade. It was hard and metallic. “But Signor Farrell, in his letter he say—”

“I don't care what he said to you in his letter,” I interrupted him. “I can only repeat, I have not got a package for you. I saw him once in Pilsen, that's all. It was in his office and an official interpreter was with us all the time.”

He started to say something and then his voice vanished suddenly as though he had cupped his hand over the mouth-piece of the telephone. There was a pause and then he said, “Are you sure you only see him once, signore?”

“Quite certain,” I answered.

“He does not come to see you at your hotel?”

Was it my imagination or was there a sudden emphasis on his words? “No,” I answered.

“But he tell me—”

“Once and for all,” I said angrily, “will you please understand that I have no package either for you or Tu
č
ek.”

There was another pause and I thought perhaps he'd rung off. I was sweating and I wiped my face with my handkerchief. “Per'aps, Signor Farrell, we do not understand each other, no?” The voice was softer, almost silky. “You see, if I have the specifications and can proceed with the organisation of the new factory, then I need several of the sort of machine tools fabricated by your company. Per'aps I require them in a hurry and pay a bonus to you for arranging the quick delivery, eh? Now you have another look through your baggage, signore. It is possible you cannot remember what is in it until I remind you, eh?”

It was a straight bribe and I wanted to tell him what I thought of him. But after all he was a potential customer, so all I said was, “I'm sorry, Mr. Sismondi. I just haven't got what you want. I will call on you later at your office if I may and talk about equipment for the Ferrometalli di Milano.”

“But, Signor Farrell—”

“I'm sorry,” I said quickly. “I cannot help you. Goodbye.” And I put the receiver back on its rest.

For a while I stood there, staring out of the window at the colossal bulk of the Stazione Centrale. The grey stone stood out almost white against the dark under-belly of the cumulus that was piling up across the sky. Sismondi knew that Tu
č
ek had visited me at the Hotel Continental. That
was the thing that stood in the forefront of my mind. I told myself I was imagining it. Sismondi couldn't possibly know. But the thought stayed there and I felt as though the fingers of that imaginary arm stretched out across the Czech frontier were closing round me. The sunshine streaming in through the open window faded. The Piazzale Duca d'Aosta looked suddenly grey and deserted. I shivered and closed the window.

I started towards the door and then stopped. Suppose Tu
č
ek had put a package amongst my things that night. I hadn't searched through my suitcases. It could have lain there without my noticing it. My hands were trembling as I got out my keys and unlocked the two cases. But though I searched even the pockets of my suits and felt the linings there was nothing there. I searched the clothes I was wearing and my overcoat and went through the papers in my briefcase. I found nothing and with a feeling of relief went down to the bar.

It was lunch-time and the place was half empty. I sat down at the bar and got a drink. I felt less alone with a glass in my hand and the cognac was comforting. There was a paper on the bar counter and I concentrated on that, trying to forget Sismondi and that damned telephone conversation. But even the paper contained something to remind me of Tu
č
ek. On an inside page I found a paragraph headed: CZECH TABLE TENNIS STAR TO STAY IN ITALY. The story began—
When the Czech table tennis team, which has been touring Italy, left Milano yesterday, Sgna Hilda Tu
č
ek was still in her hotel. She refuses to return to Czechoslovakia. She intends to remain in Italy for the present. Hilda Tu
č
ek is the daughter of
…

I stared at the paragraph, remembering how Jan Tu
č
ek had said—
Fortunately my daughter play table tennis well
. So that was what he had meant. Father and daughter had planned to be together and now…. I pushed the paper away. Poor kid! She must be wondering what had happened.

A hand touched my arm and I spun round with a start.

It was Alec Reece. “Can I have a word with you?” he said. “What about?” I asked.

I didn't want to talk to him. I'd had enough for one day. I suddenly felt very tired.

“Come over here.” He took me to a secluded corner of the bar. We sat down. “What are you having?”

“Cognac,” I answered.

“
Due cognac,
” he told the waiter. Then he leaned forward. “I've been checking up on Tu
č
ek,” he said. His face looked pale and there were lines of strain round his mouth. “The Anson arrived at the airport here shortly after four on Friday morning.”

“Then he's in Milan?” I felt relieved. It was nothing to do with me. But I was glad he was safe.

“No,” Reece said. “He's not in Milan. And the devil of it is I don't know where he is—or what's happened to him. The plane was met by two Italians. I gather that neither Tu
č
ek nor Lemlin ever got out of it. The aircraft was refuelled and took off again immediately. I've checked up on every airport in Italy, also in Switzerland, France and Austria. I've tried Greece and Jugoslavia as well. The plane and its occupants have completely disappeared.”