Cause for Alarm (11 page)

“That woman,” he said viciously, “is an imbecile, a cretin. Bernabò himself, however, is in the purchasing section of the Ordnance Department, and an important man. I wouldn’t have bored you with them, but I thought you might find him useful. I mentioned your business to him. You need have no qualms about pursuing the acquaintance. He will not rebuff you. It might be worth your while to cultivate him. A little dinner would be sufficient to begin with. The rest will follow naturally.”

I did not need to ask what “the rest” consisted of. My experience at Genoa had taught me something.

“It’s very good of you, General.”

“Not at all.” He paused for a split second and glanced at me. “There are probably all sorts of ways in which I can help you, Mr. Marlow.”

I thanked him again. We had reached the box.

“Milan,” he said as we went in, “is a city in which it is wise to have good friends. By the way, I suggest that we leave after the next ballet. The last on the programme to-night is a local product, and will, I fear, be quite dreadful.”

“Then I should prefer to leave.”

“I anticipated that you might. I have ordered supper for ten o’clock.”

It was actually after ten o’clock when eventually we left La Scala for the Corso di Porta Nuova.

It was a small house; but the interior was fantastically grandiose. It was decorated in a sort of baroque-Gothic manner with huge swagged hangings of dark red velvet, heavy Cinquecento furniture and painted walls. The lighting was by candelabra. Except for a faint smell of incense in the air, the effect was fantastically like that of a piece of ballet décor. A pale, dainty-footed young manservant in blood-red satin knee-breeches helped the illusion considerably.

He tripped forward, took our coats and was gliding away into the shadow of the stairs when Madame Vagas called after him.

“Ricciardo.”

He stopped with evident reluctance. “Signora?”

“You have been burning incense again.”

He pouted. “Only a little, Signora.”

Her voice suddenly became shrill. “You are not to burn it, you understand? You are not to burn it.”

Ricciardo’s lip trembled. He was, it was clear, about to burst into tears.

“My dear Elsa,” murmured the General repressively, “we have a guest.” He raised his voice. “Ricciardo, come here.”

The youth advanced a few steps. “
Si, Eccellenza
.”

“Go and put some colour on your cheeks and then serve supper. And remember that there must be no flowers on the table.”

“
Si, Eccellenza
.” He flashed a smile at us, bowed low and retreated.

The General turned to me. “I insist on the servants looking decorative.” He fluttered a hand towards the walls. “Do you like it, Mr. Marlow? The Loves of Mejnôun and Leilah.
I had it copied from some tapestries.”

“Yes, signor Marlow,” echoed Madame Vagas with a thin, malicious smile; “do you like it?”

“It is charming.”

“Charming!” She repeated the word with polite derision. “You may be right.”

There was no doubt that I had said the wrong thing. I was feeling distinctly embarrassed.

“My wife,” said Vagas, “detests the place.”

“My husband, signor Marlow, has a weakness for the macabre.”

It was said most amiably. Both of them were smiling at me; but the atmosphere was suddenly deadly with hatred. More than ever I wished that I had not come. There was, I knew, something inexpressibly ugly about the two Vagas. They were both grotesque, as grotesque as their house and as their manservant.

Vagas took my arm.

“Come, my friend; supper is waiting.”

It was served in an alcove leading off the main room. The glass was exquisite, the china was beautiful, the dishes were perfectly presented. The General and I drank Tokay. Madame Vagas sipped a glass of Evian water. To my relief, for I had nothing to say, the General monopolised the conversation with a monologue on the subject of the ballet.

“I feel sure,” said Madame Vagas after a while, “that signor Marlow is not so interested in the ballet.”

The General raised his eyebrows. “My dear Elsa, I was forgetting. I am so sorry, Mr. Marlow.”

I mumbled my protest.

“You must forgive me, Mr. Marlow,” he went on; “the ballet interests me enormously. It is, I believe, the final expression of a disintegrating society. The idea of the dance, you know, and the preparation for death have been inseparable since the human animal first crept through the primæval forest.
Ballet is merely a new rationalisation of society’s instinctive movement towards self-destruction. A dance of death for the Gadarene swine. It has always been so. Catherine de’ Medici’s musician, Baltazarini, invented the ballet as we know it. It has remained the prophet of destruction. In the years before nineteen-fourteen it drew larger audiences than ever before. In the early nineteen-twenties, when Diaghilev was doing his best work, it became a more esoteric pleasure. Now it is popular again. If I never read a newspaper, Mr. Marlow, one evening at the ballet would tell me that once again society is preparing for death.”

Madame Vagas rose. “I think that, if signor Marlow will excuse me, I shall go to bed.”

His lips twisted. “You know, my dear Elsa, that you never sleep.”

“I am afraid,” I said quickly, “that I have stayed too long.”

“Not at all, Signore. It is very early. My husband will tell you that I invariably retire early.”

“Good night and thank you, Madame.”

“It has been a pleasure to meet you, Signore. Good night.”

She held out her hand.

Uncertain whether I was supposed to shake or kiss it, I compromised by touching it and bowing.

The next moment I felt a small piece of paper being pressed firmly into the palm of my hand. My fingers closed on it. She withdrew her hand and went without looking at me again.

The General sighed.

“I must apologise, Mr. Marlow. My wife is a little unwell at the moment. A nervous complaint. Any talk of death depresses her.”

I transferred the piece of paper to my waistcoat pocket.

“I am sorry to hear that.”

Ricciardo hovered in the background.

“You may leave the coffee and brandy in the next room, Ricciardo. Then go to bed.”

“
Si, Eccellenza
.”

We moved into the adjoining room. A wood fire burning in the grate sent long shadows leaping over the dark hangings. One of the candles was guttering in its wax. I wanted badly to leave. I was tired. The General and his house were getting on my nerves. I was acutely conscious of the piece of paper in my pocket. It was possible that the General had seen me take it. In that case.…

“Brandy, Mr. Marlow?”

“Thank you.”

It was obviously a note of some sort. What on earth.…

“A cigarette, Mr. Marlow?”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll find that chair comfortable.”

“Thank you.”

He sat down facing me so that his face was in the shadow while mine was lit by the fire. It was an old trick, but it did not help me to feel any more at my ease.

He stretched himself luxuriously. “I don’t think, Mr. Marlow, that the chairs at the Hotel Parigi are quite as comfortable as this, are they?”

“No, not quite.”

“And yet you contemplate moving to even less comfortable surroundings?”

“I don’t care for living in hotels.”

“No, of course not. Mr. Ferning had the same taste in the matter of living. But I seem to remember your saying that an apartment such as his would be too expensive.”

“I shall find something less expensive.”

“And less comfortable, I am afraid.” His cigarette glowed. He threw back his head and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. His head dropped again. Suddenly he leaned forward.

“May I be frank, Mr. Marlow?”

Now it was coming! I was surprised to find that my heart had begun to thump against my ribs. It was stupid of me, craven if you like, but I was afraid. I had to steady my voice, to instil into it a tone of faint surprise.

“By all means, General.”

“My reasons for calling upon you the other evening were not altogether social.”

I emitted a non-committal “I see.”

“I should like, Mr. Marlow,” he went on, “to discuss some business with you.”

“I am always ready to discuss business on behalf of my company, General.”

“Yes, quite so.” He paused. “But this is a rather more personal matter, you understand. I am no business man”—his hand fluttered contemptuously—“but I have my interests. You mentioned the matter of an apartment. Mr. Ferning, I remember, was in much the same position as yourself. It was a simple question of money. Nothing more. I was able to introduce him to some private business that provided him with an answer. I can do the same for you, Mr. Marlow.”

I muttered something about its being very good of him.

“Not at all, my friend. It is a question of mutual advantage”—he seemed to like the phrase for he repeated it—“a question of mutual advantage. More, this business is in no way incompatible with the interests of your English employers. That fact is certain. Mr. Ferning was the soul of probity in such matters. He was a man with a very strict sense of honour and a very high conception of his patriotic duty.”

I could not quite see where this was leading but I made no comment.

He cleared his throat. “That, however, is by the way. The simple fact is, Mr. Marlow, that I happen to be in touch with certain persons who are prepared to pay for technical assistance such as you are in a position to give them.”

“Technical assistance?”

“To be more precise: technical information of a comparatively specialised nature. I should add”—he hesitated impressively—“that the opportunity I am giving you, Mr. Marlow, is one both of enriching yourself and of serving your country.”

“I’m afraid that I don’t understand.”

“Let me explain.” His voice had become soft and persuasive. “You, Mr. Marlow, are selling a special sort of machine to Italian engineering firms. You are doing so under the ægis and with the full approval of the Italian Government. These machines are designed for one single purpose, the making of shells. Very well. That is business. Good. But has it occurred to you, my friend, that these beautiful machines you are supplying, these very efficient machines, are being used to make shells which may one day burst among the bodies of your own countrymen? Have you considered the matter in that light?”

I stirred. “I have considered the point. But it is no business of mine. I am concerned with selling machine tools. I am merely the agent. I did not create the situation. The responsibility for it is not mine. There is a job to be done. If I do not do it, then someone else will.”

“Quite so. The responsibility for the situation is not yours. As far as these business transactions are concerned, you are a purely impersonal agent whose task it is to make profits for the firm of Spartacus.”

“I am glad you see the point.”

“I do more than see the point, Mr. Marlow,” he said enthusiastically. “I insist upon it. It is the very impersonality of your job that enables me to make this proposal to you. It is that very fact that places it apart from the interests of Messrs. Spartacus.”

My attack of nerves had passed. I was feeling slightly irritable.

“Perhaps, General, if I knew the nature of your proposal I could judge for myself.”

“I wish you to do so,” he said promptly. “I wish you to do so. I wish you to judge the matter from a purely impersonal standpoint, without emotion, calmly.” He drew a deep breath. “Let me put the situation to you hypothetically. Let us suppose for the moment that England was at war with Germany. England’s ally would be France. Now let us suppose that you, an Englishman, were in possession of certain information about Germany which would be of very considerable value to your country’s ally. What would you do? Would you decide that, as the information was of no immediate value to England, you would keep it to yourself? Or would you give the information to France who might use it against your common enemy? I think you would almost certainly give that information to France. Don’t you agree?”

By now I was thoroughly on my guard. “Under those purely hypothetical circumstances,” I said carefully, “I probably should.”

“Then,” he said gravely, “we are in perfect sympathy. That is what I should do. However,” he went on blandly, “that is only a hypothetical case. Naturally, you are more interested in facts than fancies.”

“Naturally.”

He leaned forward so that his face came into the light. “Then let us get to facts.” His voice had lost its effeminacy. It had become hard, almost peremptory. For the first time I was reminded that the word “General” was not merely a mode of address.

“Mr. Marlow, you are engaged in selling shell-production machinery to Italy. I, as I have already told you, am a Yugo-Slav. I am empowered to say that my Government would be interested in receiving from you details of all your transactions with Italian firms, and would be prepared to recognise your personal efforts in the matter with a retaining fee of at
least two thousand lire a month. The details you would be asked to furnish would be of the simplest. You would, as I have explained, be expected to do nothing calculated to prejudice the interests of your employers. All we should require would be the details of the machines supplied; their nature, their production capabilities and their destination. Nothing more.”

“And you are prepared,” I said steadily, “to pay two thousand lire a month for just that? It seems rather a lot of money for so small a service, General Vagas.”

He made an impatient gesture. “What might seem unimportant to you, Mr. Marlow, might be of great value to a military intelligence department. That is because you know nothing of such matters. It is of vital importance to the military and naval authorities of every power to know precisely the potential aggressive and defensive capabilities of every other power. That is a commonplace. It is a recognised need. Every country appoints military and naval attachés to its embassies and legations abroad. The collection of information is their official function. But consider this, Mr. Marlow. Where do these attachés obtain their information? Where else but from the very persons whose business it is to conceal it? The obtaining of accurate military intelligence concerning the resources of a possible enemy is a routine precaution essential to national security. Are we to accept what that possible enemy chooses to tell our attachés officially? Obviously that is absurd. We must make other arrangements. We must buy the information where we can. That is all. You can depend upon it, Mr. Marlow, that we only buy what we need.”