15

Normally I am a heavy sleeper and do not wake easily; the wakening is a long, slow journey back to consciousness; a journey through a country of fantastic confusions and strange images. But on that morning I awoke quickly. Even as I screwed up my eyes against the first blinding flash of the foremans torch, I had remembered where I was and why I was there. A dream of fear changed suddenly into the reality.

The man shaking my arm was Zaleshoff. Then I felt a blow on my legs. With my eyes still closed I heard him speak quickly and angrily.

Leave him alone. Well get down all right.

I felt the glare leave my eyes and opened them again. It was still dark and there was a single bright star winking in a dark-blue sky. The head and shoulders of a man in uniform showed over the side of the truck.

Be quick about it! he snapped.

I scrambled to my feet. Zaleshoff already had one leg slung over the side of the truck.

Where are we? I whispered.

Brescia. Speak Italian, he muttered.

I clambered out after him. In the gloom I could see four men standing waiting for us. Three were in workmens overalls; the fourth, the uniformed man with the torch, was a foreman. As our feet touched the ground the four of them closed in on us and seized our arms.

The foreman flashed the torch over us. To the weighbridge office, he said abruptly; they can be kept there until I consult with the yard manager and the police. Keep a firm hold of them. Come on, march!

He jerked my arm and we began to walk across a network of lines and points towards a massive, dark building.

We appeared to be in a big goods yard. Beyond the building ahead there was a haze of light coming from a row of floodlights which the building concealed. I could hear a diesel-motored engine shunting a long line of trucks and the receding clink-clink of the buffers. In the distance was the reflected glare in the sky of street lighting. It was cold and my body, still warm from sleep, shivered. One of the men holding Zaleshoff said something and the other laughed. Then we walked on in silence.

The dark building turned out to be an engine shed. About fifty yards beyond it a gang of men with a travelling crane working below the floodlights was loading motor-car chassis on to long two-bogie trucks. We turned away to the left along a narrow concrete path. The path curved round a signal cabin. Then we crossed another track and approached a small building with a large window in one side through which I could see a naked electric lamp suspended above a sort of counter. The foreman pushed the door open and we were led inside.

It was really little more than a hut. A youth was seated on a high stool before the counter, which I now saw was the recording part of the weighbridge on the adjacent track; and as we came in he slipped off his stool and stood goggling at us.

I could see the foremans face now. He was a dark, grey-faced man with a little spiky moustache. He looked intelligent and bad-tempered. He frowned at the youth.

Have you finished checking the cement loadings?

Yes, Signore.

Then you can go and work at your own table. This is no business of yours.

Yes, Signore. The youth gave us a frightened look and went.

Now then! The foreman relaxed his grip on my arm and motioned to the men holding Zaleshoff to release him. Then he pointed to the opposite wall of the office. Stand over there, both of you.

We obeyed. His lips tightened. He surveyed us grimly.

Who are you? he snapped suddenly; and then, without giving us a chance to reply to this: What were you doing in that truck? Dont you know that it is forbidden to ride on goods trains? You are cheating the State. You will be put in prison.

There did not seem anything to be said to this. Obviously, the moment the police saw me the game would be up. It was, I thought, remarkable that I had not already been identified with the picture in the paper. Perhaps the hat accounted for it. But it was only a matter of time. I wished they would hurry up. Perhaps it would be best if I told them myself.

Well, snapped the foreman, what have you got to say for yourselves?

Then, to my surprise, Zaleshoff stepped forward a little.

We were doing no harm, Signore, he whined, we were trying to get to Padova. We had heard that there was work there and we had no money. Do not give us up to the police, Signore.

It was abject; but Zaleshoff, with his filthy face and heavy growth of beard, was a villainous-looking object and anything but pitiable. I was not surprised when the foreman scowled.

Enough. I know my duty. Where do you come from?

Torino, Signore. We were only trying to get work.

Show me your identity card.

Zaleshoff hesitated. Then: It is lost, Signore, he said quickly; I had it, but it was stolen from me. It

It was a hopeless exhibition of shiftiness. The foreman cut him short with a gesture and turned to me.

Show me your identity card.

I have none, Signore, I

He laughed angrily. Do you also come from Torino?

I thought quickly. Now was the time to give myself up. Zaleshoff must have known what was passing through my mind for he coughed warningly. I hesitated.

Answer! snapped the foreman.

No, Signore. From Palermo.

My Italian was not nearly as good as Zaleshoffs and I thought that I had better give an answer that would explain away my accent.

I see. His lips tightened. One from Torino and one from Palermo. Both without identity cards. This is clearly a matter for the police.

But whined Zaleshoff.

Silence! The workmen had been watching the scene with blank faces. Now he turned to two of them. You two stay here and see that they dont try to escape while I consult with the yard manager and the police. He turned to the third man. Go back and see if they have done any damage inside the truck. If it is all in order refasten the tarpaulin properly. Those trucks will go on to Verona to-day.

A moment later the door closed and we were left with our two gaolers.

For a moment or two we exchanged stares.

They were brawny fellows with red, grease-smeared faces. They were wearing filthy light-blue overalls and berets. One of them was about my own age; the other looked about ten years older. He carried a long wheel-tappers hammer. The younger man was, judging by the state of his hands, a greaser. They both looked very determined. It seemed obvious to me that if we tried any rough stuff we should accomplish nothing and probably get badly knocked about.

I glanced at Zaleshoff and caught his eye. His face was quite impassive, but he raised his eyebrows and shrugged slightly. I took it that he had resigned himself to the inevitable.

But I was wrong.

Four men standing in silence in a small room staring solemnly at one another produces after a while an atmosphere of extreme nervous tension. The desire to break the silence or establish some sort of communication with the other three becomes overpowering. The man with the hammer was the first to give way. His face puckered suddenly into a sheepish grin.

Zaleshoff promptly grinned back at him.

Do you mind if we sit down, comrades? he said.

The grin faded from the workmans face as suddenly as it appeared. I saw him cast a quick apprehensive glance at his companion. The younger man was frowning. I realised that it was the word comrades that had been the trouble. It was, I thought, very tactless of Zaleshoff.

The wheel-tapper nodded slowly. Yes, you can sit down, he said.

There were some packing-cases in one corner of the office.

We moved over and sat on them. Zaleshoff began to hum softly.

I stared wretchedly at the bare wood floor. So this was the end of our plan for getting out of the country! We might, I reflected bitterly, have saved ourselves those twenty-four hours of walking. I had, I told myself, always known that it was hopeless, that Zaleshoff had only been postponing the evil moment; yet, now that it had come, I was conscious of being disappointed. It must, I decided, have been that I had expected something different. I had expected to be recognised. In my minds eye I rehearsed the scene as it should have been played. I imagined the sudden gleam that should have lighted my captors eyes when he realised that he had earned himself ten thousand lire. Then there would be the formalities at the police station and the armed guard back to Milan. I pictured the pained courtesy of the young man at the Consulate. Naturally, Mr. Marlow (or would he omit the Mister?), we shall do all we can, but Or perhaps it would not get as far as that. Shot while escaping-that had been the phrase Zaleshoff had used. They make you kneel down. Then they put a bullet through the back of your neck. That was horrible. You knelt down as if you were going to pray. There was something helpless and pitiful about a man kneeling. I yawned. I kept yawning. It was absurd. I was not tired, I was not bored-my God, no! I was scared, scared stiff, in the bluest of funks, and I was yawning. It was grotesque. I shivered.

Zaleshoff was still humming. It was a march of some sort. It went on and on, a steady, plodding rhythm. I found myself involuntarily beating time with my foot.

Stop that!

It was the wheel-tapper who had spoken. It was said angrily, in irritation; but in his eyes there was a watchful, worried look that puzzled me. I had a sudden feeling that there was something going on that I did not understand. The greaser was watching Zaleshoff closely. Outside an engine clanked slowly past. Then it happened.

Zaleshoff pulled the brandy bottle out of his pocket.

Can we have a drink, comrades? he said.

The greaser made a motion forward as if to stop him; but the older man nodded.

Hes up to something, exclaimed the greaser suddenly. He turned on his companion accusingly. You dirty Red!

The wheel-tapper raised his hammer menacingly. His mouth tightened. Keep your mouth shut, he said slowly, or Ill knock your brains out.

I was bewildered. I looked at Zaleshoff. As if nothing had happened, he was uncorking the bottle. He extended it to me. I shook my head and stared at him.

You wont have another chance for a while, he said with a shrug. They dont serve it in prison.

He put the bottle to his mouth and tilted it. There was not much left in the bottle and I could not help seeing that the liquid did not get as far as his mouth. He lowered the bottle and smacked his lips.

That was good, he said.

He got slowly to his feet and extended the bottle to the greaser.

Have some, comrade? he said.

The man scowled and opened his mouth to refuse. Suddenly Zaleshoff stepped forward and the bottle moved quickly in his hand.

The next moment the greaser was staggering back, his hands clapped to his eyes and brandy streaming down his face. Almost simultaneously Zaleshoffs arm with the bottle in it flew up and smashed the electric-light bulb.

After the naked glare of the lamp, the half-light of dawn seemed pitch blackness. The greaser was shouting and swearing violently. There was a quick scuffling, a sudden stamping of feet and a sharp grunt. The greaser stopped shouting. There was a sudden silence. For a split second I stood there bewildered, then I came to my senses and jumped towards where I knew the door to be. It was madness. I knew it. The man with the hammer would brain us before we could get out. Then a hand gripped my shoulder. I spun round, drew back my fist and drove it into the shadow behind me. The next instant my wrist was caught and held.

Its me, you fool! hissed Zaleshoff. Get out quick!

He flung the door open and we tumbled out into the air.

But

Shut up! he snarled. Run!

Even as he spoke, I saw the foremans torch bobbing towards us at the end of the concrete path.

We raced across the lines. Then I caught my foot in a sleeper and went sprawling. Zaleshoff dragged me to my feet. There were shouts raised behind us.

Quick, Marlow! Down by the engine shed!

I saw the bulk of it outlined against the bluing sky. We clattered across the steel turntable in front of it and turned down a cinder track alongside a line of trucks. Zaleshoff dived under the coupling between two of them. I followed. On the other side we paused. As far as I could see we were going in the direction of the station proper. There were lights ahead and a large open space criss-crossed by rails. Zaleshoff turned round.

Its no good this way, he muttered. Theres no cover. Theyd see us before we got to the station.

The shouts were growing nearer. I heard a man calling for more lights.

Come on, said Zaleshoff, weve got just one chance. Follow me and do exactly as I do, and for the love of Pete do it quietly.

He started to walk quickly back along the line of trucks towards the engine shed and to the men approaching on the other side. I could hear their footsteps now and the voice of the foreman exhorting them to hurry. Zaleshoff walked on steadily for a bit and then stopped. For a minute we stood behind a truck. Then we heard our pursuers pass to the right of us.

Come on! said Zaleshoff.

We walked on down the line of trucks. Towards the end of it there were four cattle vans. Opposite the first of these he stopped.

Up on the roof for us, he said.

He reached up, grasped the bottom staple and clambered up. I followed. A moment or two later we were lying spread-eagled on the roof. I glanced back and saw that torches were flashing at the end of the line. My heart gave a leap.

Theyre searching the trucks, I whispered.

I know. Keep absolutely flat and lie still.

I obeyed. My nose was jammed against a conical ventilator. There was no doubt about it being a cattle truck; but I scarcely noticed the smell. I was listening to the voices coming nearer and nearer. I could feel my heart beating against the curved hard surface of the roof. There seemed, I thought, to be about eight of them. I could distinguish the foremans voice and that of another man obviously in authority. Both seemed anxious to propitiate that man. He was, I guessed, a policeman.

Certainly we shall recapture them, I heard the foreman say; certainly. Without a doubt. They could not have got away in this time. If they have doubled back, your own men will catch them. There is no way out. When it is a little lighter

The policeman emitted an exclamation of impatience.

We cannot wait for the light. He paused. If I see them I shall shoot immediately. I do not believe that these men are tramps. That they have no identity cards is very suspicious. Another pause. See that your men search thoroughly. Not a centimetre of this train must be left unsearched. Do you hear?

There was silence again. My heart pounded. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Zaleshoffs hand moving slowly to his side. It stayed there for a moment, then it moved slowly upwards again. By the growing light I saw that he had a revolver in his hand.

Instinctively I stretched out my hand and clutched his sleeve. He shook me off and wormed his way slowly towards the edge of the roof.

They were only two trucks away now and on both sides of the line. I could hear them panting over their exertions as they climbed up the sides of the trucks and stripped back the tarpaulins. Then something struck the side of the truck on which we were lying. A moment later the sliding doors below us were rolled back. There was a pause. They were evidently flashing a torch round the interior. One of the men muttered niente. Then a boot grated on the bottom staple and a man began to climb up to the roof.

I listened to the mans feet as he clambered up. One, two, three, four another step and the top of his head would be visible. We were caught. I waited for his shout. I wondered desperately whether it would not be better to stand up there and then and surrender. The policeman might not shoot. As I swallowed down the saliva that kept filling my mouth I saw that Zaleshoff had moved so that he was near the edge of the roof at the point where the man would appear. The next moment the top of the mans head came into view. He took another step and the white shape of his face appeared. At that moment Zaleshoffs left arm shot out and he grasped the mans collar. I saw his right hand jab the revolver against the side of the mans head.

It was done in a fraction of a second. With his hands grasping the staples on the side of the van he could not attempt to defend himself. I heard him give a stifled sob of terror. Then, too softly for me to hear, Zaleshoff whispered something to him. The next moment the man was climbing slowly on to the roof. I could see his face more clearly now. His mouth was half open and his eyes were moving quickly from side to side seeking some way of escape. He bent forward to steady himself by putting his hands on the roof. Zaleshoff lifted his right arm. I saw him twirl the revolver round by the trigger guard and grasp the barrel. Then he brought the butt down with all his strength on the back of the mans head.

The man gasped once and slumped forward half on the roof and half off it.

Pull him up, whispered Zaleshoff.

I grasped the mans outstretched arms and pulled. I saw Zaleshoff trying to draw the feet sideways on to the roof. It was difficult to exert any force while we were lying on our faces, but somehow we managed it. There was a movement from below and the policeman called up to know if there was anything to be seen on the roofs of the other cattle trucks.

Zaleshoff squirmed across the roof to the far side.

Niente, he called back. He slurred the word so that it was little more than a grunt.

There was a curse from below. I heard the doors of the next truck being rolled back. The unconscious mans head had begun to bleed profusely, and the blood was trickling slowly down the curved roof and soaking into the shoulder of my overcoat. I tried to move, but Zaleshoff stopped me with a warning gesture. I heard the search go on to the third and then the fourth van. Then I saw Zaleshoff beckon. I edged across to him. He brought his lips close to my ear.

Well go down one at a time now, he whispered. You go first. When you get to the ground turn right, away from them, and walk, walk, mind you, slowly and quietly along by the trucks. Keep close in to them. Theyll miss this poor sucker any minute now, and weve got to get clear. Ill catch you up.

With infinite care and feeling as conspicuous as an aeroplane caught in searchlights, I swung my legs over the edge of the roof, rolled over on my face and felt with my toes for the staples. A moment or two later I reached the ground. I gave one glance at the torches still flashing about twenty-five yards away. I wanted badly to run; but I controlled myself carefully. Zaleshoff had said walk. I turned and walked. I heard a slight sound behind me and Zaleshoff had caught me up. We reached the cover of the engine shed in safety.

It was possible by this time to distinguish something of our surroundings. Far away to the right of us was the weighbridge office. Facing the engine shed about a hundred yards away was a long low building that looked like a warehouse. I remembered what I had overheard.

I heard the foreman say that that way was guarded, I said quickly, for he was peering in that direction.

So did I. Were not going that way. Weve got to get across those lines on to the station side, and I guess theres only one way to do it. Come on. Well see what we can find in here.

I felt suddenly irritable. My nerves were raw. He was treating me, I thought, like a child. And I was feeling sorry for the man he had clubbed.

What do you expect to find? Are you planning to pinch an engine and ride out on that?

Dont be damned silly. Come on.

We walked to the end of the cinder path and turned into the engine shed. It was a large building constructed on a slight curve so that the lines on which the engines ran under cover converged on the turntable. The glass roof was practically obscured by soot deposits and it was very dark inside. There were five or six engines in it.

Zaleshoff led the way round behind them. Then I heard him give a grunt of satisfaction. We stopped. I could see him fumbling with something in the darkness near the wall. Suddenly he straightened his back and thrust something greasy and soft into my hands.

What is it?

What I was looking for. A drivers coat. Get your overcoat off and put it on. Theres a cap here, too.

I put the coat on. As my eyes got used to the darkness I could see that he was doing the same. On his head was a beret. He handed me a cap with a shiny peak. The coat smelt strongly of coal, grease and sweat.

Have you kept your scarf?

Yes.

Good. Give me your overcoat and hat.

I did so and he stuffed them behind a steel locker.

I dont, I said, see the point of all this. Do you imagine that were going to get past the police on the strength of a couple of coats?

No. What we are going to do is to walk across the lines into the station and

And hide in the lavatories, I suppose, I supplemented ironically.

Maybe. Lets go.

A minute later we broke cover and began to walk across the tracks towards the end of the line of trucks that separated us from the main lines.

It was a nerve-racking business. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Zaleshoffs victim had been found. They had lowered him from the roof of the van and he was sitting on the ground, his hands clasping his head. A group of them, including the foreman, was standing round talking excitedly. The policeman with his revolver at the ready was stalking rapidly in the direction of the warehouse. A railway official was trailing anxiously in his wake. We passed the line of trucks safely and started to cross the main lines diagonally towards the station. It may have been my nerves or it may have been that the drivers coat was a good deal thinner than my overcoat, but by the time we had reached the station I was shivering violently.

The station platforms were practically deserted; but there were two bored-looking militiamen leaning against the wall by each exit. There was also a man with a trolley buffet talking to a porter on one of the eastbound platforms. Zaleshoff changed direction suddenly and began to walk towards it.

Whats the idea? I muttered.

That buffet means that theres a night train due in. If its got third-class coaches, well jump it.

What about tickets?

Weve got uniforms on. We can go third-class free.

We reached the platform.

I think that those ten minutes we had to wait for the train were the worst part of it.

The sky was grey and a thin drizzle had begun to fall; but it was now light. The goods yard seemed very near. The station was very quiet, and small sounds, the scraping of a foot, a cough, echoed from the curved roof. To my overwrought imagination, the porter, the buffet attendant and the militiamen seemed all to be staring at us suspiciously.

For Gods sake, muttered Zaleshoff, dont look so darned sinister. You look as though youd just made arrangements to blow up the station. Dont look at them, look at me; and look as if you liked it. Come on, well try a slow walk towards the buffet. We cant stand here all the time. It looks too exclusive. Have you got your cigarettes?

Yes.

Break one in half in your pocket, stick one end in your mouth and light up. If those two start talking to us, keep your mouth shut and leave it to me. Theyll spot your accent.

My fingers were shaking so much that it took me over a minute to light the cigarette. By that time, Zaleshoff was sauntering, hands in pockets, towards the buffet. Suppressing a desire to run after him, I followed slowly. I caught him up as he was nearing the buffet. The porter and the buffet attendant had stopped talking and were watching our approach. I felt sick with apprehension. Then the porter nodded to Zaleshoff.

Trouble over at the goods yard, they tell me, he said.

He was a youngish man with quick blue eyes.

Zaleshoff shrugged. His voice when he spoke was thick, as though he had a cold, and he slurred his words. It would have been difficult to detect any accent.

They found a couple of tramps hiding in a truck, he said. One of them hit one of our chaps with a bottle and they got away. They must be hiding in another truck now. But they wont get out of the yard.

The porter leaned forward confidentially. Weve had a message here to look out for them. It is said that they may be the two foreigners that escaped from Milan.

Zaleshoff whistled softly.

The porter smacked his lips. Ten thousand lire! Thats something, isnt it?

Not so bad. But-he looked puzzled-I thought there was only one of them.

The porter whipped a newspaper out of his pocket. No, two. The police think that he has another man with him, this foreigner. They were seen in a caffe near Treviglio the night before last. The padrone recognised one of them from the photograph in the paper. Look, here it is. No photograph of the second man, but a description. You know, I think that these are not Englishmen, but French, or perhaps English spies working for the French. The French will stab us in the back if they can. Yesterday I carried the baggage of a Frenchman, three heavy suitcases, and found him a good corner seat with his back to the engine as he wished. He gave me five lire. Five lire only! He gazed at us in bitter triumph.

Ah, the French! said Zaleshoff. He glanced at the paper idly and laughed. Well, it wont be you or me thatll collect that ten thousand. Itll be a policeman. You mark my words.

Policeman! chimed in the buffet attendant suddenly. He lowered his voice. A man was telling me in the caffe last night that it was not the police whom these men escaped from in Milan, but-well-you know who I mean. He looked from one to the other of us meaningly.

Zaleshoff shrugged again. Perhaps. He turned and dug me jovially in the ribs. Hey, what about ten thousand lire, Beppe? He turned again to the other two. Hes sulking. His woman is at home in Udine, and hes thinking that there will be a couple of his mates underneath the bed when he gets back.

The three of them roared with laughter. I scowled. Zaleshoff dug me in the ribs again.

Where did you say you came from? said the porter suddenly.

Udine, and thats where were going back to.

Then how did you get this way?

He was looking puzzled. My heart missed a beat. Zaleshoff must have blundered in some way.

Brought a train of refrigerator vans up from Padova. Special job. He said it easily enough; but I saw a wary look in his eyes.

The porter nodded, but I could see that he was thinking this over. I saw the blue eyes flicker once from me to Zaleshoff. It was with an inward sigh of relief that I saw that the train had been signalled. Zaleshoff nodded towards the signal.

Wheres this one going? he said.

It was the buffet attendant who replied.

Belgrade and Sofia direttissimo, with a slip coach for Athens. Its got third all right as far as Trieste.

Veneziall do for us.

The porter opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again. I saw him shrug slightly as if dismissing a thought from his mind. Then he strolled away up the platform and began to man?uvre a trolley into position ready to transfer the packages with which it was loaded to the luggage van on the train. But I noticed that from time to time he glanced at us. Another porter appeared with a postal official and a mountainous load of mail bags. The buffet attendant began to test the automatic coffee urn on his trolley. The smell of hot coffee was exquisite torture. The attendant looked at our empty hands.

Arent you eating to-day?

We have eaten, said Zaleshoff promptly; an hour ago.

Coffee?

Zaleshoff grinned. At a lira a cup! What do you take us for?

The attendant laughed and began to push the trolley towards the end of the platform. We were left alone.

That porter I began under my breath.

I know, he murmured; but well be out of it in a minute. Heavens, I could have done with a cup of coffee. He glanced up at the clock. Two minutes after six. Itll probably be late. He looked casually along the platform at the porter. It would be our luck, he muttered vindictively, to strike a guy with eyes in his head. The only consolation is that hes feeling afraid of making a fool of himself.

I dont know that our lucks been so bad.

If it hadnt been for a piece of lousy luck we shouldnt have been found in that truck. I couldnt fasten the tarpaulin from the inside, and the wind blew it back. When we stopped in the yard they spotted it and had to climb up to pull it back. We shouldnt have been spotted otherwise.

I glanced sideways at him. I wasnt thinking about that, and you know it. Why didnt that wheel-tapper stop us? And it was he who stopped the other man shouting, too, wasnt it?

Why should he? I wish this darn train d hurry.

Itll look better if we talk, I said spitefully. What sort of game were you playing in that office, Zaleshoff?

Game?

Yes-game.

For a moment our eyes met. This isnt the time he began, then shrugged. Back in nineteen-twenty, he went on slowly, a lot of the Italian workers used to tattoo a small hammer and sickle on the forearm. It was just to show that they didnt care a hoot who knew they were Communists. Sort of badge of honour, see. When that guy was holding me, I saw that he had a round scar on his arm. I guessed then that he might have had one of those tattoo marks at some time, but that hed found it safer since to cut away the flesh with the mark on. I thought Id find out if I was right. I called him comrade. That scared him, because the other guy was too young to remember anything except fascismo and he might talk. But I knew Id got him. Once a Communist always a Communist. I started humming the Bandiero Rossa -thats the old Italian workers song. Then, when I was pretending to take that drink, he winked at me. I knew he was O.K. In the darkness he gave that young chap a clip under the jaw that knocked him cold. I had to do the same for him then, so that hed have something to show when they questioned him. The poor sap!

I thought for a moment. You know, I said then, I wouldnt call him a poor sap. and I dont think you would either if you didnt feel that you ought to behave like the traditional right-thinking American citizen.

But he did not answer. The train was coming in.

Through the windows of the sleeping-cars I could see the white sheets on the upper berths. The sight made me start yawning again. I felt suddenly very tired.

There was a concerted rush for the buffet from the three third-class coaches at the front of the train. We got into a second-class coach and walked along the corridors to the front.

The three third-class coaches were very full and very hot. There were soldiers on the train, and their equipment was piled up in the corridors. Through the steamy windows of the compartments I could see weary, harassed women trying to pacify howling children. The air smelt of garlic, oranges and sleep.

Well stick in the corridor, murmured Zaleshoff.

Five minutes later the train drew out. We were leaning on the rail gazing out of the window. The blue-eyed porter was standing on the platform looking up. Our eyes met his, and his head turned slowly as the coach slid past him. Zaleshoff waved.

But the porter did not wave back. I saw him raise one hand slowly as if he were about to do so. Then the hand stopped. He snapped his fingers and turned on his heel.

Damn! said Zaleshoff softly. Hes made up his mind.