Cause for Alarm (12 page)

I said nothing. He went on.

“Again, should there still be any doubt in your mind as to the propriety of your supplying a third party with this very harmless information, let me draw your attention to this fact. During the past nine months Messrs. Spartacus have enjoyed
steadily increasing prosperity in this country. They have received more orders from Italy than ever before. Yet, until Mr. Ferning’s unfortunate accident, we were in regular receipt of the information I am asking you for now. Look at it another way. If I cared to employ experienced agents for the purpose, I could secure this information quite independently. We could secure it, but it would simply be less convenient to do so by those means and more expensive. You see the idea? You would be paid, in effect, not for supplying us with a series of comparatively commonplace facts, but for saving us the trouble and expense of obtaining them elsewhere. You see, Mr. Marlow? Tell me frankly what you think.”

I was silent. A log settled down in the grate. I could hear a clock ticking. So that was it. That was the proposition that Zaleshoff had wanted me to hear, the proposition that he thought might interest me.

“Well, Mr. Marlow?”

“This is a very unusual proposition, General,” I said stupidly.

“Not so unusual as you might think, Mr. Marlow,” he said calmly. “But let me assure you that there is nothing in it to which even the most sensitive conscience could object. It would be a simple matter of business, a confidential routine arrangement between two men of honour.”

I stood up. “Yes, I quite see that. I take it, then, that you would have no objection to my referring the proposal to Mr. Pelcher, my managing director, for sanction to discuss the matter further with you?”

He fingered his lower lip. “I could scarcely counsel that course, Mr. Marlow. While any private arrangement we made together would be no concern of your company, to put the matter on an official footing would certainly embarrass your director. It would involve for him a question of honour. Rightly or wrongly, he would feel that he had
an obligation of discretion to fulfil as far as his clients were concerned.”

“And you don’t think that I, as a representative of the Spartacus company, have a similar obligation?”

“As you pointed out yourself, Mr. Marlow, your position is, in a sense, impersonal. You accept no responsibility for the nature of your company’s activities. You do not, rightly, permit instincts of loyalty to your country to interfere with business. Why should you allow a vague sense of loyalty to your company to confuse your mind?”

“My company purchases my loyalty by paying me to represent it.”

“I see. And your country does not pay you.” There was no mistaking the sneer in his voice. I felt myself losing my temper.

“I’m afraid that I cannot accept your interpretation of the circumstances. I have only your word for it that any question of loyalty to my country does actually arise.”

“Do you doubt my word, Mr. Marlow?”

“No, but I think you may be a trifle prejudiced.”

“Your predecessor, Mr. Ferning, did not think so.”

“Possibly not.” I glanced at my watch. “I think, General, that I ought to be going. It is past midnight and I have to be up early. Thank you for a very pleasant evening.”

He got to his feet.

“Another brandy before you go?”

“Thank you, no.”

“As you please. With regard to this matter of business, Mr. Marlow.” He rested his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t decide too hastily. Think it over. Naturally, I don’t want you to do anything that causes you the least uneasiness. But I think you will see that I am right.”

The candlelight was reflected for an instant in his monocle. His hand patted my shoulder paternally. I wanted to shake it off.

“Good night, General.”

“Good night, Mr. Marlow. You can always reach me by telephone here. You have my number. I shall look forward to a call from you—whatever you finally decide.”

“I think I can safely tell you now that …”

He held up his hand. “Not now, please, Mr. Marlow. Think it over first. Wait a few days. Er—your coat will be in the hall.”

It was with profound relief that I heard the door close behind me. After the hot, incense-laden atmosphere of the General’s fantastic house, the cold, damp night-air was invigorating. And I had plenty to think about as I walked back to the hotel.

Several things were now explained. Ferning’s apartment, for instance. Two thousand lire a month! Roughly two hundred and fifty pounds a year. It wasn’t so bad for doing next to nothing. You could probably furnish a house very comfortably with two hundred and fifty pounds. And I could save a little on my ordinary salary as well. With the few pounds capital I had left after my two salary-less months, I could finance myself in England for long enough to find a good job. But, of course, it was all quite out of the question. Ferning must have been a bit of a fool to let himself become involved in that kind of game. Vagas might talk glibly about necessary intelligence, routine precautions and private business arrangements; but that was merely a polite way of putting it. The word was “espionage.” And espionage was a crime. If you were caught at it you were imprisoned.

All the same, there was one thing that wasn’t explained. Why had Zaleshoff been so insistent on my seeing Vagas? According to Vagas, Zaleshoff was a Soviet agent. Vagas, himself a Yugo-Slav agent, was probably in a position to know. Spying was, no doubt, like engineering. You got to know other people in the same line of business. All the same, the whole thing was rather disturbing and not very pleasant.
Spies were things you sometimes read about in newspapers. The court was cleared and evidence was taken
in camera
. There was an absurd air of melodrama about the proceedings. Learned counsel adjusted their wigs and discoursed weightily on the subjects of secret documents, nameless “foreign powers,” mysterious meetings and sinister third parties who had “since left the country.” It all seemed unreal, part of another world, it did not touch your own everyday life at any point. Yet this world of spies and counter-spies did exist. Spies had to live somewhere. They had their work to do like anyone else. The fact that I had encountered two of them in an Italian industrial city shouldn’t be particularly surprising. It certainly was not particularly melodramatic. There were no mysterious meetings, no sinister third parties, the foreign powers were not nameless, and you could scarcely call Ferning’s notes a secret document. It was—I was surprised to find myself echoing Vagas’ words—simply a business matter. But what had Zaleshoff to do with it? It might, I decided, be amusing to find out. It could do no harm and my curiosity was aroused. It wasn’t every day that you met a spy. I ought to make the most of the opportunity. Zaleshoff obviously knew what Vagas was up to and his behaviour in the Opera House showed just as obviously that he did not wish Vagas to know that he had met me. I was, too, curious about Zaleshoff’s card index system. It would be interesting to know a little more about General Vagas. Claire would be intrigued, too. I could write and tell her about it. Besides, I did, so to speak, owe Zaleshoff a cake of soap over that passport business. That wasn’t quite so amusing. Well, there was probably a very simple explanation of Zaleshoff’s little “prophecy”—mentally I put the words in inverted commas.

By the time I arrived at the hotel, I was, I am afraid, feeling quite jaunty about the whole affair. I was cultivating a slight man-of-the-world attitude. It was, all things considered, just as well that I did not realise just what sort of an idiot I was
being and just how sinister and melodramatic reality was very soon going to prove. If I had realised those things, I should not have slept nearly as soundly as I did sleep.

It was not until I had undressed for bed and was hanging my clothes in the wardrobe that I remembered Madame Vagas’ piece of paper. I retrieved it from my waistcoat pocket and unfolded it.

Scrawled across it were six words:

“
Ha fatto morire il signor Ferning
.”

I sat down on the bed and stared at it blankly. “He killed Mr. Ferning.” Who did? Presumably Vagas. Vagas killed Ferning. But that was absurd. Ferning had been run over. This was obviously a piece of spiteful nonsense. You did not have to be particularly observant to notice that there was no love lost between Vagas and his wife. And you could scarcely wonder at it. Not by any stretch of the imagination could you describe either as particularly lovable. But this! The woman was clearly unbalanced.

I got into bed. Claire, I reflected, would have been amusing on the subject of Ricciardo.

O
N THE
Thursday morning, I telephoned down to Zaleshoff.

A woman’s voice answered me in Italian.

“
Pronto
.”

“
Il signor Zaleshoff?
”

“
Uno momento
.”

A second or two later Zaleshoff came on the line.

“
Qui Vittorio Saponi
.”

“Is it, indeed! This is Marlow.”

There was a yelp of delight.

“Hal-lo, Mr. Marlow! How are you keeping?”

“All right, thanks.”

“Did you have a good time last night?”

“Quite. And you?”

“Fine. I hope you didn’t mind my high-hatting you like that.”

“Not a bit. I was wondering whether you were too busy to have dinner with me this evening.”

“Delighted. But look. Why not come along to our apartment and have dinner there? That dame I was with last night’s my sister. She’s crazy to meet you.” There were sounds of altercation in the background. “Just a minute.” He clapped his hand over the transmitter. There was silence for a moment. Then: “Sorry about that. We’re having a show of maidenly reticence this end. Can you make it to-night?”

“Thanks, I’d like to.”

“What time can you get away?”

“Not before half-past six.”

“Call in for me on your way down and we’ll go along together. Okay?”

“I’ll be there.”

At half-past six I descended to the third floor. Zaleshoff was alone in his office, hammering furiously at a portable typewriter. He waved a hand in greeting.

“Come on in and sit down, Mr. Marlow. If you don’t mind, I’ll just finish this before we go.”

I sat down. A minute or two later he whipped the paper out of the machine, addressed an envelope, stuffed the paper inside it and sealed the flap. I watched him in silence. He had on a pair of reading spectacles. They made him look younger. The idea that he might be a Soviet agent seemed suddenly preposterous. Soviet agents were sinister figures with beards. They spoke broken English and wore large black hats. This man Zaleshoff … He looked up and his bright eyes met mine.

“The day’s outgoing post?” I inquired facetiously.

“No. We posted that one this morning.”

“I see.” An idea struck me. “Do you ever look at the flaps of the letters you receive?”

He grinned. “To see if they’ve been steamed open? Is that what you mean, Mr. Marlow?”

“As a matter of fact, that’s just what I did mean.”

“Have they been steaming yours open, Mr. Marlow?”

“Yes.”

“What made you notice it?”

I told him about Claire’s letter.

“And now it doesn’t happen any more?”

“I haven’t noticed it since that letter.”

He chuckled. “That must have made them mad.”

“Who’s ‘them’?”

He was struggling into his overcoat. “The birds that do the steaming,” he replied evasively. “Shall we go?”

“All right.” But at the door I paused. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Mr. Zaleshoff?”

“Eh?”

“There was something mentioned about a card from that card index file of yours. Reference number, V.18, I believe. Do you remember?”

He patted his breast pocket. “It’s here, Mr. Marlow, next to my heart.”

The Zaleshoffs’ apartment was situated over a shop in a street near the Piazza San Stefano. It consisted of two rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom. The two rooms were large, and one of them was evidently used both for sleeping and for living. They had the appearance of having been furnished in a great hurry. The living-room in particular presented a very curious appearance, the furniture consisting of a deal table, a pair of packing cases thinly disguised with blue calico as occasional tables, a luxurious divan with a label still attached to one foot of it and a colossal, and obviously valuable,
marqueterie bureau-cum-bookcase. The walls were distempered, rather carelessly, in white.

“It’s a wonder,” explained Zaleshoff, “that it doesn’t look a damn sight worse. We tore the shopping list in half and went out to get the whole outfit in a couple of hours. A guy with a hare-lip sold me that bureau. It’s a nice piece, but Tamara seems to think it was a waste of money. She fixed the packing cases. I sat on one yesterday and tore my pants. You’d better try the divan. I bought that, too.” He raised his voice. “Tamara!” He turned to me again. “Take your things off, Mr. Marlow, and have a cigarette. You’ll find some in the bookcase. Excuse me, will you, I’d better superintend the cooking.”

“You’re too late,” said a voice.

Feeling slightly bewildered by all this, I turned round. The girl was standing in the doorway removing an apron.

“And,” she added, “it’s quite all right to sit on the packing cases now. I took the nails out myself.”

“Oh, there you are,” said Zaleshoff. “This, Mr. Marlow, is my sister, Tamara.”

She smiled. I found myself smiling back at her.

“I’m glad you could come, Mr. Marlow,” she said; “I was afraid that you would be annoyed with us for not speaking to you last night. Andreas has probably explained why we didn’t.”

“Actually,” I replied, “he hasn’t explained. But I’m quite sure that it was necessary.”

“Andreas, you said …”

He flourished an arm dramatically. “Silence! We will discuss these matters after we have eaten. To your kitchen, Tamara!”

At the door she paused. “It is simply, Mr. Marlow,” she explained gently, “that he was badly brought up. You must try to make allowances for these
gaucheries
.” She shook her head compassionately and disappeared into the kitchen.