Cause for Alarm (20 page)

He looked at me. His jaw dropped. Then he looked at the girl. Her expression was utterly non-committal. He looked back at me again. I nearly permitted myself a grin of triumph. Fortunately for my dignity I did not do so for, suddenly, he began to roar with laughter and slap his knee. “Soviet agents!” he bellowed hysterically; “that’s too good! Oh my!”

I waited stolidly until he had finished. Then:

“You still,” I said dryly, “haven’t answered my question.”

He became suddenly serious. “One moment, Marlow. Before you jump to any rash conclusions, think. What would I, a respectable American, want with …”

Disgustedly, I waved him into silence. “All right, all right! let it go.”

“And …”

“Let it go. But”—I wagged a finger at them—“don’t blame me if I draw my own conclusions, will you?”

“Why should we blame you, Mr. Marlow?” said the girl pleasantly.

For some reason the question embarrassed me. I let the subject drop. Privately, however, I registered a decision to bring it up again: but the opportunity of doing so did not present itself immediately. Three days later, to Zaleshoff’s noisily expressed delight, I received Vagas’ letter.

At half-past two on the Sunday afternoon, I left the Hotel Parigi, followed, as usual, by two drab-looking men, and met
Zaleshoff at a
caffé
near the Castello. Tamara was not with him. He ordered a coffee for me and looked at his watch.

“We’ve got about ten minutes to go before we need start.”

“Start what?”

“To lose those two shadows of yours.”

“But I’m not meeting Vagas until nearly eleven to-night.”

“Maybe not, but we start the good work this afternoon.”

“Look here, Zaleshoff,” I protested irritably, “isn’t it about time you told me what this is all about?”

“I was just going to. Listen. You’ve got to get rid of those two guys somehow, and they’re not going to fall for anything elementary like walking into an hotel with two exits. I’ve watched them on the job. They know their stuff. Besides, if you try to put one over on them they’ll know you’re up to something, and that’d be nearly as bad as their knowing what it is you’re up to. We don’t want that. You’ve got to give them the slip by accident—at least so that it looks like an accident. That’s where the procession comes in.”

“What procession?”

“Fascist Youth Movements—the
Balilla
and
Avanguardisti
—military boy scouts. They’re marching up from the Centrale station, about ten thousand of them, with bands and a detachment of Blackshirts. They’re all coming in from Cremona, Brescia, Verona and a few more places by special trains. Then they’re going to march to the Piazza Duomo to listen to one of the Fascist bosses telling them what a fine thing war is and be reviewed. Then they’re going to sing the
Giovinezza
and march back again. It’s when they’re marching back that you do the trick.”

“What trick? Don’t tell me that I’ve got to dress up as an Italian Boy Scout and fall in with the procession, because I won’t do it.”

“This is serious.”

“Sorry.”

He leaned forward solemnly. “Have you ever wanted to
cross a road when a big procession was going by?”

“Yes.”

“Did you get across?”

“No.”

“Exactly! Well, now then, listen.”

For five minutes he talked steadily. When he had finished I looked at him doubtfully.

“It might work,” I admitted.

“It will work. It’s just a question of good timing.”

“Supposing they won’t let me through?”

“With Tamara doing her stuff, they will.”

“All right, I’ll try it.”

“Good. Finish your coffee and let’s go. Are those two guys in the black velour Homburgs the ones?”

“They are.”

“Then we’ll all go and have a nice look at the procession.”

It was a fine afternoon. The air was cold but the sky was clear and blue and the sun cast strong black shadows on the dusty roadways. The pavements were crowded. It seemed as if every family in Milan were out. The men and women wore black, the small girls white, the boys and youths wore
Balilla
and
Avanguardisti
uniforms. Men selling flags and favours with portraits of Mussolini in the centre were doing a roaring trade. Corsetted young air-force men strutted about in threes and fours eyeing groups of giggling factory girls. Empty wall spaces had been decorated with stencil daubs depicting Mussolini’s head in semi-silhouette. The
caffès
near the route of the procession were packed with weary-looking men and women, the parents and relations of the participants in the procession, who had arrived, so Zaleshoff informed me, by special trains in the early hours of the morning. Many of the women carried squalling babies.

With some difficulty we established ourselves on the steps of an apartment house in the Corso Vittorio Emanuele. The pavement in front of us was a solid mass of spectators. Beyond
them, lining the route at intervals of three yards, stood armed Blackshirt militiamen, facing alternately inwards and outwards. Jammed against the wall a few yards away were the two plain-clothes detectives, pale, impassive middle-aged men, obviously of the regular police.

At last there was a faint burst of cheering in the distance. The noise of the crowd, except for a baby crying on the opposite side of the road, subsided into an expectant murmuring. Ten minutes later, amidst a roar of hand-clapping,
vivas
and cheering, and to the accompaniment of a dazzling display of flag-waving, the procession, led by a big military band and a drum-major with huge curling moustaches, came into view.

The
Avanguardisti
came first, taking themselves very seriously. They carried dummy rifles, as did the
Balilla
, the younger boys, who followed them. The ranks were flanked by Blackshirt standard bearers. There were also detachments of Sons of the Wolf, the Italian equivalent of Wolf Cubs, and of the two girls’ organisations, the
Piccole Italiane
and the
Giovani Italiane
. There were many bands. It was all very impressive and took over forty minutes to march into the square.

As the tail end of the procession passed, the crowd swarmed past the militiamen and across the road and surged forward towards the square.

“Come on,” muttered Zaleshoff.

We plunged into the crowd and were carried by it towards the square. Over my shoulder, I saw the detectives elbowing their way after me.

When we reached the street that runs towards the Scala we extricated ourselves from the crowd and walked slowly towards the Via Margheritta. The plain-clothes men allowed the distance between us to increase and followed, looking in shop windows as they went along and making pantomime gestures of relief at escaping from the crowd.

Zaleshoff grinned. “They must think you’re pretty dumb.”

“Why?”

“They think you still don’t know you’re being followed.

“I’ve taken care not to let them think otherwise. Besides, it’s a different couple every day. I’ve got used to it.”

“Well, it makes it all the easier for us. You’re clear now as to what you’ve got to do?”

“Perfectly.”

We had reached the end of the street. The Via Margherita, which was part of the return route of the procession, was lined with Blackshirts in preparation for the crowds that would presently begin to stream away from the Piazza. Already, the edges of the pavements were lined with people, mostly women and children, prepared to sacrifice the sight of the ceremony in the square to secure the best possible view of the returning procession.

Zaleshoff made as if to turn in the direction of the Via Alessandro Manzoni, away from the square. I stopped and indicated the waiting people. For a moment or two we put up a show of arguing, then Zaleshoff glanced at his watch, shook hands with me and walked away towards the Scala. I appeared to hesitate, then make up my mind. There was a space on the kerb behind a Blackshirt. I took up my position there and settled down to wait. Out of the corner of my eye I was able to see that the plain-clothes men had established themselves against a newspaper kiosk some yards away. So far, things were going according to plan. The impression we had created was perfectly natural. Zaleshoff obviously had an appointment to keep. I was intent on seeing the procession again. The detectives, I was glad to see, were looking abjectly bored.

The Piazza Duomo was not more than a hundred yards from where I stood. Fifty yards away a cordon of police with fur-edged, three-cornered hats and swords had been drawn across the entrance. Beyond them was the crowd that would presently be split into two parts, one of which
would be forced along the pavement behind me. From the square came the sound of sentences being bellowed from loudspeakers, sentences punctuated with cheering, cheering that, from where I stood, was like the harsh roar of the sea receding over shingle.

The Balilla and the Avanguardisti of to-day will be the natural heirs of Fascismo
. Cheers.
Italy deserves to be the biggest and strongest nation in the world
. Louder cheers.
Italy will become the biggest and strongest nation in the world—Il Duce has willed it
. A roar.
Youthful conscripts of the Fascist revolution receive the rifle as the youth of ancient Rome received the toga of virility—it is one of the most beautiful celebrations of the party and most significant—war is, for a true son of Fascismo, the consummation of his love for his country
. Was it my fancy or was the applause that greeted this a shade less vociferous?
Youth be strong!

The loudspeakers bellowed on. At last it was over. The massed bands struck up the
Giovinezza
. The huge crowd sang it.

The cordon of police was beginning to push forward into the crowd to clear the road for the procession. It was nearly time! I looked across the road. According to plan, Tamara should have been in her place by now. It was possible that she had been hemmed in by the crowd somewhere. I was beginning to get anxious when I saw her.

The crowd on the opposite pavement had already begun to thicken. Tamara was jammed between a large fat man clutching a very small flag and a middle-aged woman in mourning. I saw that she had seen me, for she was very carefully looking in the direction of the square. My heart beating a little more quickly than usual, I waited.

The police had succeeded in splitting the crowd and I could now see into the square to where the leading band was getting into position for the march to the station. I looked over my shoulder. The crowd behind me was now ten deep. My two shadowers were well hemmed in against the kiosk. One of them cast a casual glance in my direction. I managed to avoid his eye just in time and turned my attention to the militiaman behind whom I was standing. As far as I could make out, he was about twenty-one years of age, but I could not see enough of his face to enable me to form any opinion as to his kindness of heart. I would have to chance that.

Eventually the band struck up and began to move forward slowly. Now was the time. I began to rehearse feverishly the one simple sentence I had to say. The crowd began to cheer. The first detachment of
Avanguardisti
wheeled out and formed up behind the band. The drum-major threw out his chest, his legs stiffened into the Roman goose-step, he tossed his baton into the air, caught it neatly and twirled it. The band stepped out.

They were now not more than fifty yards away. Thirty yards. I waited frantically for Tamara’s signal. But it did not come. Then I remembered my part and began to wave excitedly to her. Twenty-five yards. The applause of the crowd was swelling up, sweeping along the street like a tide over sand-flats. I was nearly sick with apprehension. Another second and it would be too late; Zaleshoff’s fine plan would have failed. He would have to think of something else. The noise of the band and the cheering became deafening. Then I saw her waving to me. It was the signal.

I started forward into the roadway and gripped the militiaman’s arm. He was getting ready to come to attention and half-turned in an effort to shake me off. I hung on.

“My wife, Signore!” I shouted in his ear. “We were separated in the crowd and she is opposite—can I get across?”

As I said it, I released his arm and started forward. I heard
him shout something after me but what it was I do not know. On top of his anxiety to come to attention at the right moment, my question had disconcerted him enough to prevent his making an effort to stop me. Now it was too late. I was half-way across the road.

It could not have taken me more than eight seconds or so to cross. It seemed like eight minutes. I felt, and probably was for that short space of time, the most conspicuous object in Milan.

In the middle I stumbled and for one ghastly instant I saw the procession advancing head-on towards me. Then the faces and the fluttering flags on the opposite kerb came nearer and I saw Tamara again flapping her handkerchief at me. The militiaman in front of her frowned at me, but he was now standing stiffly at attention and made no movement. The fat man waved his flag in my face. The woman in mourning mouthed angrily at me but the noise drowned what she said. Then the girl caught my arm and started to draw me after her through the crowd. The fat man, divining that the movement would give him more room, made way. A moment or two later we were behind the crowd. I drew a deep breath.

“Phew! Thank Heavens that’s over!”

She was choking with laughter.

“What is it?” I demanded irritably.

“Their faces! You didn’t see their faces!”

“Whose faces?”

“Your two shadowers. They tried to push through the crowd after you. The crowd thought they were trying to get to the front to see the procession better and got mad. Someone knocked one of their hats off. It was lovely.”

“I thought you were never going to signal.”

“I know you did. But I had to leave it to the last moment.” She indicated a side turning. “We go down here.”