4

It used to be the custom to commemorate moments of national humiliation or disaster by applying the adjective black to the day of the week concerned. The pages of European history are, so to speak, bespattered with the records of Black Mondays and Black Thursdays. It may be that, in this twentieth century, almost daily acquaintance with large-scale catastrophe has deprived the custom of its point. Black and white have tended to merge into a drab grey.

Yet, for me, there is a Wednesday which, in its sooty blackness, is easily distinguishable from the grey. It is the day following that upon which I met General Vagas.

It began with a visit to the Amministrazione della Polizia.

I presented myself, passport in hand, shortly after nine oclock. After surrendering the passport to a policeman wearing a Monagesque uniform and a huge sword, I was ushered into a waiting-room. Except for a row of greasy wooden armchairs and an ink-stained table it was bare of furniture. From one wall glowered a large fly-blown photograph of Mussolini. Facing it on the opposite wall was a companion representation of King Victor Emmanuel. The frames of both portraits were draped, rather carelessly, with Italian flags. When I arrived, one of the chairs was occupied by an old woman in mourning, eating a cold compress of spaghetti out of an American-cloth bag. After about ten minutes she was beckoned out by the policeman and I was left alone to study the Duces apoplectic glare.

I waited for an hour and a quarter. Shortly after the forty-five minutes mark I went to the door and complained to the policeman. I had, I protested, work to do. His only response was a shrug and a vague assurance that my case was receiving attention. I retired once more to the waiting-room. By the time he appeared at the door and beckoned to me, my temper was already a trifle frayed. What followed did nothing to improve it.

I was shown into a room occupied by a man in a dark-green uniform. He was lolling back in his swivel chair flipping over the pages of an illustrated magazine. One gleaming, booted leg was cocked over an arm of the chair which he had swung round, so that all I could see of him was the back of his neck. Beyond affecting a slightly more intense preoccupation with the magazine, he took no notice of my entrance. With rising irritation, I studied the neck.

It was plump and brown and bulged over the narrow line of white stiff collar above the uniform collar. I took an immediate dislike to the neck and to its owner. He flipped over the last of the pages, dropped the magazine on his desk and swung round to face me. My dislike was promptly confirmed. His face was small, smooth, round and spiteful. He scowled at me.

Yes? What do you want?

My passport.

And why should I have your passport? Get out!

Deciding that the fool of a policeman had probably shown me into the wrong room, I turned to go.

Wait.

I stopped.

What is your name?

Marlow.

English?

Yes.

Ah! He turned to his table, picked up my passport from under the magazine and looked at the name on it. Ah, yes! Signor Marlow, the Englishman. He smiled unpleasantly.

Precisely, Signore, I burst out angrily. And I should like to know why I have been kept waiting for an hour and a quarter. I nodded towards the magazine. I, at any rate, have something to do with my time.

It was perhaps unwise of me, but I could not help it. The prospect of carrying out my intention of putting in a good days work at the office was receding rapidly. I was thoroughly angry. Nevertheless, as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew that I had blundered.

His lip curled viciously.

Be more respectful in your manner, please, he snapped; and be so good as to address me as signor Capitano.

I glared at him in silence.

Allora. He turned to the passport and drew a sheet of paper towards him. You will answer the questions I put to you.

Very well. I carefully omitted the signor Capitano.

With great deliberation he put his pen down, fitted a cigarette into a holder and produced a jewelled lighter. His obvious intention was to waste time. I could have hit him.

Now, he went on at last, we will begin. Where were you born?

You will find the place and date in my passport.

I did not ask you what is in the passport, you fool, I asked you where you were born.

London.

The date?

I gave him the date. The questions went on. What nationality was my father? British. My mother? British. My grandfathers? British. My grandmothers? British. Was I married? No. Had I any brothers or sisters? A brother. Was he married? Yes. What was the nationality of his wife? British. Had I ever been in Italy before? No. Where had I learned Italian? From a friend in London. What was the friends name? Carmelo. Where was he now? I did not know. Had I known Signor Ferning? No. Had I ever had any other profession but that of engineer? No. Why had I come to Italy? To act as my employers representative. How long did I hope to stay? Indefinitely. Was I a member of any political party? No. Was I a Socialist? No. Was I a Marxist? No.

By now I had my temper well under control. He sat back and surveyed me sullenly. I waited. Then he stood up. I was interested to see that he wore corsets.

Permission will be given for you to remain in Italy providing that you report here every week to have your permit stamped. You have brought the regulation photographs? Very well. Report here to-morrow for your permit. You may go.

Thank you. My passport, please.

He scowled. Your passport will be retained until to-morrow for official purposes.

But-

There is no argument. You are in Italy now and Italian regulations must be obeyed. And-he put one hand on his hip in the authentic Mussolini pose and tapped me threateningly on the chest-I should advise you to be careful about the acquaintances you make.

I am always careful about my acquaintances.

Very likely. But there are some persons with whom it is unhealthy to associate.

I stared hard at him. I can quite believe you, I said deliberately.

His lip curled again. A little Fascist discipline would do you good, signor Marlow, he said slowly. Let me advise you once more to be discreet. He turned his back on me and sat down.

I went, seething. On the way to the Via San Giulio I called at the British Consulate. I was interviewed by a very polite young man in a Savile Row suit. He listened to my tale of woe in silence. Then:

Well, of course, Mr. Marlow, it is very unusual of them to behave like that, and Ive never heard of them retaining a British passport like that. But you were probably just unlucky. And they are inclined to be a little touchy at the moment. Ill have a word with the Consul about it. But I shouldnt worry. If you dont get your passport back, let us know. By the way, what did you say your business was?

My company is supplying machinery to the Government.

What sort of machinery, Mr. Marlow?

For making munitions.

Oh quite. Well, I expect that that might have something to do with it. Let me see, Mr. Ferning was your predecessor, wasnt he?

Yes.

Did you know him?

No. I have only just left England.

Ah, just so. Charming fellow, of course. Well, good morning, Mr. Marlow. Let us know if you have any trouble.

I went on my way. That was the third time in twenty-four hours that I had been asked whether or not I had known Ferning. Vagas, the signor Capitano, and now the Consulate. It was, I supposed, only to be expected. A man who dies in a street accident in a foreign city is not immediately forgotten by all his associates there.

Bellinetti greeted me cordially and informed me with pride that he had done most of the work for the day.

The Signore, he added, need never trouble to attend the office until after luncheon. I, Bellinetti, will see that all goes well. He smacked his lips and flashed a smile in the direction of Serafina, who looked up from the book she was reading to nod graciously.

I scowled at them and strode into my office. Bellinetti followed me.

There is something wrong, Signore?

Impatiently, I told him how I had spent the morning.

He pursed his lips. That is bad. I will speak to my brother-in-law on the subject. He is most sympathetic, and he has a friend who knows an important personage in the Amministrazione. There is, however, he went on gaily, no need for you to worry. The business is all in good order. Everything arranges itself admirably.

It took me exactly four hours to find out just how admirably everything in the Milan office of the Spartacus Machine Tool Company did, in fact, arrange itself. The knowledge was profoundly depressing. Everything had arranged itself into the most disgusting muddle.

Hidden away in drawers and cupboards I found stacks of correspondence.

Our files, explained Bellinetti proudly.

I went through one pile with him. Roughly one half of it consisted of unanswered requests for information of various kinds, the other of accounting records that should have been sent to Wolverhampton over six months previously.

The latter I flourished in his face. You might not have known how to deal with the letters, I snapped, but at least you should have known that these go to England.

He eyed me apprehensively and flashed an uneasy smile.

Signor Ferning said to keep them here, Signore.

It was a palpable lie; but I said Oh, and went on to the next cupboard. This was a mistake, for, imagining, evidently, that he had found a formula that would silence my criticisms, he proceeded to invoke the name of my predecessor as every fresh defection came to light. He, Bellinetti, had known that it was wrong but-here a shrug-signor Ferning had said It had not been for him to dispute with signor Ferning. Signor Ferning had had the confidence of those at Volverampton. He, Bellinetti, had done his best, but his services had not been recognised. I soon gave it up, and went back to my room to sit down behind the mountains of files now reposing on my desk. Bellinetti, a Daniel come to judgment, followed me.

For five minutes I talked without stopping. He smiled steadily through it all. By the time I had finished, however, the smile had changed considerably in quality. I saw, to my satisfaction, a new Bellinetti shining through it-a Bellinetti who would gladly have knifed me.

He shrugged, at last, disdainfully. These things, he said, are not my responsibility, but that of signor Ferning.

Signor Ferning has been dead over two months.

Without assistance I can do nothing. Umberto is a cretin.

I let this pass. I had, during the afternoon, formed my own opinion of Umberto.

Who, I pursued, engaged the Signorina?

I had already ascertained that she had been engaged since Fernings death, and he knew that I knew.

I did, Signore. It was essential that I had some assistance. The Signorina has been a great help while I was here alone bearing the responsibilities for your English company.

The Signorina cannot even type.

She is my secretary, Signore.

You have no secretary, Bellinetti. The Signorina must go. You can tell her yourself or I will do so. Now be good enough to ask Umberto to come in. You need not stay any longer to-day. I shall expect to see you at nine oclock to-morrow morning to go through these files of yours.

The office does not open until ten oclock, Signore.

From now on, it opens at nine.

The smile had deteriorated into a show of teeth. He retired, slamming the door after him. A moment or two later a terrified Umberto appeared.

You wished to see me, Signore?

Yes, Umberto. How much do you earn a week?

Eighty lire, Signore.

Beginning this week you will receive a hundred lire a week.

For a moment he goggled at me. Then, to my horror, he burst into tears. After a bit he began to stammer his thanks. He lived with his grandfather who was bed-ridden. His brother was doing his military service. His mother had died when he was born. His father had been killed by the Squadristi in nineteen-twenty-three. I was, he sobbed, his benefactor.

I got rid of him as soon as I could, and began the assault on Fernings desk.

The drawers were stuffed with blue-prints, specifications, German machine-tool catalogues and memoranda from Pelcher and Fitch. But there was a certain amount of order in the way in which it had been put away. I guessed that the desk had not been touched since Fernings death. The tone of the Wolverhampton correspondence was cordial and businesslike. I found also a set of false teeth in a thick cardboard box, two dirty handkerchiefs, a piece of soap, a razor, a slide-rule, an empty Strega bottle and a small loose-leaf note-book. I put these objects aside and began to sort the papers.

I became so immersed in the task that it was eight oclock when I glanced at my wrist-watch and decided to finish for the day. I had told Bellinetti that he was to be in the office at nine. I should have to see that I was on time myself. Besides, except for some fruit that I had sent Umberto for during the afternoon, I had had nothing to eat since breakfast. It was time that I had dinner.

I rose and got my coat. As I was putting it on it brushed against the desk and knocked the note-book on to the floor. I picked the note-book up. It had fallen open and one of the leaves had come adrift. Almost automatically I patted it back into place and refastened the loose-leaf catch. Then I stopped and looked at it again. The page was covered with minute pencil notes. But it was not the notes that had made me look twice. Roughly printed in pencil at the head of the page was the word VAGAS.

I carried the book to the light and began to read. This, I remember, is how it began:

VAGAS

Dec. 30

S.A. Braga. Torino. 3 specials. adapt. 25 + 40 m.m. A.A.A. L. 64, L. 60. Borfors 1,200 plus. I stand. 10.5 c.m. N.A.A. 150 plus 40 m.t. bp. Spez. rept. 6 m. belt mg.s.a. 1.2 m. 14 mths. 6? 55 c.m. 30 ^o el. Mntgs. Gen.

The rest of the page was filled with similar hieroglyphics. I examined them carefully. It could, of course, be that the name and the date referred to an appointment and were nothing to do with the rest of the page; but that was unlikely. The whole page had the appearance of having been written at the same time. I looked at the other pages. They were all blank. A man didnt write an appointment down in a book that he didnt use fairly constantly. Well then, supposing Vagas and December the thirtieth were part of the rest of the page, who was S.A. Braga of Turin, and what did the rest of it mean? It looked as though Ferning had had some sort of business dealing with Vagas. That possibility didnt quite fit in with the impression I had received from Vagas concerning his relationship with Ferning.

I folded the page and put it in my wallet. After all, it was nothing to do with me. I could enclose the page when I wrote to Vagas to put off our appointment for the following Wednesday. All the same, those notes were curious. I found myself wishing that I knew more about Ferning. I had only the vaguest picture of the man in my mind. According to Pelcher he had been nervous and sensitive. According to Vagas he had been a Platonic realist, with a penchant for ballet girls. The British Consulate had described him as charming. No doubt it didnt matter what he had been like; but I still felt curious. I wished that I could have seen a photograph of him.

I switched off the lights, locked up and began to walk down the stairs. They were in darkness, but from a half-opened door on the third floor a shaft of light cut across the landing. I crossed it and was about to start down the next flight when the door swung open and a man came out. I half turned. He had his back to the light, and for a moment I did not recognise him. Then he spoke. It was the American.

Hullo, Mr. Marlow.

Good evening.

Youre working late.

Theres rather a lot to be done just now. Youre none too early.

Its not so good as it looks. Ive been waiting for a long-distance call. What about a drink?

I had a sudden desire for the company of someone who spoke English.

I was just going to have some dinner. Will you join me?

Glad to. Ill just lock up if you dont mind. Not, he went on as he turned to do so, that it matters a row of canned beans whether you lock or dont lock here. The portinaia has a duplicate key. But it preserves the illusion. The great thing is not to leave anything private or valuable where she can lay her hands on it.

I had been trying to read the name of his firm on the door, but he had switched the light out. But I knew there would be a name panel on the wall by the stairs. Under cover of lighting a cigarette I looked at it by the light of the match.

Vittorio Saponi, Agent, said a voice in my ear; but my name is Zaleshoff, Andreas P. Zaleshoff. Its a Russian name, but thats my parents fault, not mine. Its no use asking me where old Mister Saponi is, because the guys dead and I wouldnt know. I bought the business off his son. Shall we go and eat?

By the dying flame of the match I could see his blue eyes, shrewd and amused, on mine. I grinned back at him. We groped our way downstairs.

At his suggestion we went to a big underground restaurant near the Piazza Oberdan. The ceiling was low and the air was thick with tobacco smoke. The sound of an orchestra playing energetically in one corner was lost in the din of conversation.

Its noisy, he acknowledged, but the foods German and pretty good. Besides, I thought you might like to know of the place. Its convenient, and when youre as tired of pasta as I am, its a godsend. Youve only been here three days, havent you?

Yes, I got here Monday. By the way-sorry to be inquisitive-what are you agent for?

Moroccan perfumes, Czech jewellry and French bicycles.

Business good?

There isnt any. I did not know quite what to say to this but he went on. No, Mr. Marlow, there isnt so much as a smell of business. I was drilling for oil in Yugo-Slavia before I came here. Id tapped a lot of gas and got the usual indications but I decided eventually to give it up as a bad job and the Government there took over. Three weeks later they struck it good and hard-gushers. When Fate makes a dirty crack like that, Mr. Marlow, its apt to jaundice a mans outlook. I came here and bought this outfit off the executors of the late V. Saponi. The books looked pretty good. It wasnt until Id actually paid over my good dollars that I found that all the goodwill in the agency had died with old Saponi and that young Saponi had side-tracked what pickings were left into his own pants pocket.

Thats bad.

Bad enough. Fortunately, Ive got other contacts. All the same, Ive promised myself a good five minutes with young Saponi one of these days. His jaw jutted forward. He regarded me with an expression of amiable ferocity. I suppose you wouldnt like to buy a French bicycle, Mr. Marlow? Ive got the sample somewhere.

I laughed. Im afraid I shant have much time for cycling. Theres a lot to be done on the fourth floor.

He nodded. I thought there might be. Your people in Wolverhampton were rather long about appointing someone.

You knew Ferning, didnt you, Mr. Zaleshoff?

He nodded and began to roll himself a cigarette.

Yes, I did. Why?

Oh, nothing in particular. Except that Ive no idea what he looked like.

I shouldnt think that would worry you.

It doesnt. Im just curious.

Any special reason for the curiosity? It could not have been said more casually.

No. Only so many people seem to want to know if I knew Ferning. Even the police seem interested.

The police! You dont want to take any notice of them.

Its difficult not to take notice. I spent practically the whole morning at the Amministrazione. I launched into a somewhat spiteful account of my encounter with the signor Capitano. He listened but made no comment. By the time I had finished, the food had arrived.

We ate in comparative silence. I was, quite frankly, more interested in my food than in conversation. This seemed to suit my companion. His thoughts seemed to have strayed. Once I noticed him gazing moodily at the table-cloth, his fork poised in mid-air. His eyes met mine and he grinned. Theres a soup stain on the cloth that looks exactly like South America, he said apologetically. But it was obvious that his mind had not been on the soup stain which was, in any case, shaped more like the Isle of Wight. I put it down to the late Vittorio Saponi.

I think, I said when I had finished, that Ill have a brandy with my coffee.

Have you tried Strega yet, Mr. Marlow?

No, but I think Ill postpone that pleasure. I feel like brandy. Will you join me?

Thanks. He looked at me for a moment. Then:

Who else has asked you about Ferning, Mr. Marlow?

A man who calls himself General Vagas. Do you know him?

The guy that gets himself up like a rocking horse?

I laughed. That sounds like him. Apparently hes a Yugo-Slav. He wants me to go to dinner with him and his wife next week. Do you know anything about him?

Not very much. His expression had become quite blank. He was scarcely listening to me. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers and his face lit up in triumph. Got it! He beamed at me. You know how it is, Mr. Marlow, when you kind of feel youve lost something somewhere and cant quite think what? Well, thats how I felt. But Ive just remembered. In my office, Ive got a photograph of Ferning. Would you like to see it?

I was rather disconcerted by this sudden interest.

Well, yes. I would. Perhaps I could look down some time to-morrow.

To-morrow? He looked at me incredulously. Tomorrow nothing. Well call back in the office when we leave. Ive got a bottle of brandy there. The real stuff. Not like this.

I shouldnt dream of bothering you. I did not, in any case, feel like toiling back to the Via San Giulio at that time of night.

But he was adamant. Its no bother at all, Mr. Marlow. Glad to be of assistance. I cant think why I didnt remember before. Its only a snap, mind you, and not particularly good of him. He wanted some photographs for his identity card and I had a Kodak. Id forgotten all about it until just now. He changed the subject abruptly. How are you getting on with Bellinetti?

Not too badly, I said cautiously. He probably resents me a little.

Sure, sure-he nodded sagely-only natural for a guy in his position. He summoned the waiter and asked for the bill, which he discomforted me by insisting on paying.

On our way back to the offices, however, he fell silent again. I concluded that he was regretting his earlier enthusiasm and suggested again that to-morrow would do just as well. The response was a stream of reassurance. He would not hear of my waiting. Besides, there was the cognac. He had been trying to remember exactly where he had put the photographs, that was all. We walked on. He was, I decided, a very curious man; not at all my idea of an American. But, then, the Englishmans idea of what an American ought to look like and how an American ought to behave was notoriously wide of the mark. Still, he was odd. And there was a quality about him that attracted you. It wasnt so much in what he said, but in the manner in which he said it. He had a way of disconcerting you with a gesture, with the way he timed his phrases. Yet you could not quite discover just why you had been disconcerted. You received the impression that you were watching a very competent actor using all the technical tricks in his repertoire in an effort to make something of a badly written part. There was something about him which cried out for analysis and yet defied it. I glanced sideways at him. His chin was tucked inside the thick grey muffler that he wore coiled twice round his neck; and he was staring fiercely at the ground in front of him as though he suspected the presence of a man-trap in the pavement. It was a portrait of a man with something on his mind.

In his office, he switched on the desk lamp.

It was a large room, larger than mine, and very neat and tidy, with a row of steel filing cabinets along one wall and a green steel desk to match. But on the wall behind the desk was a dreadful tinted photograph of the Venus de Medici. He saw me looking at it.

Its a honey, isnt it, Mr. Marlow? I keep it in memory of Mister Saponi. One day Im going to give her a moustache and a monocle. Sit down and make yourself at home.

He got out a bottle of cognac, half-filled two wine glasses with it and pushed a box of cigarettes towards me. Then he went to one of the cabinets and began to go through the files in it.

By the way, he murmured over his shoulder, have you decided to accept Vagas invitation?

The question irritated me. I really havent thought about it. Why?

But at that moment he gave vent to an exclamation of satisfaction. Ah! here it is. He drew a large card out of the file and brought it over to the light. There you are. The late Mr. Ferning.

I took the card. Gummed in the top right-hand corner was a hard, flat head-and-shoulders photograph of a middle-aged man. Except for a fringe of hair above his ears, he was quite bald. The face was round and podgy with small anxious eyes and an indeterminate mouth that seemed on the point of framing a protest. It was a weak and ordinary face. I looked at the rest of the card. In the top left-hand corner was written F326. The lower half was taken up by a strip of typewritten paper pasted on by the corners.

Sidney Arthur Ferning (I read). Born London 1891. Engineer. Representative of Spartacus Machine Tool Co. Ltd. of Wolverhampton, England, in Milan. Killed in street, Milan. (Here followed the date.) See V. 18.

I read it through once more, then I looked at the photograph again. One corner of it had come adrift from the card. Without thinking I pressed it back into position. As it did not stick, I lifted it to moisten the gum.

It was done almost subconsciously; to play for time. There was very obviously nothing casual, nothing unpremeditated about this formidable card. My mind went back to the restaurant. So he had forgotten all about the photograph. A few minutes ago he had been trying to remember exactly where it was.

Then I had my second shock. As I lifted the corner of the photograph I saw that there was a red rubber stamp mark on it. The stamp consisted of the name and address of a London passport photographer. I put the card down. So much for the Kodak snap.

I looked across the desk. Zaleshoff was watching my face and on his lips was a faint smile. I had a sudden desire to go. There was something here that I did not understand, that I did not want to understand. I got to my feet.

Well, thank you, Mr. Zaleshoff. Its good of you to take so much trouble to satisfy my curiosity. But now, if youll excuse me, Ill be going. I have to be up early in the morning.

Yes, of course. You have an appointment with the police, you said.

I have also some work to do.

Naturally. But dont forget your brandy, Mr. Marlow.

I glanced at the glass. I had not touched it. I picked it up.

Have another cigarette while youre drinking it. He held the box out. I hesitated. I could not very well swallow the brandy at a gulp and leave. To leave it untouched would be rude. I took a cigarette and sat down again. He blew the match out and examined the stalk. You know, he said pensively, I wouldnt, if I were you, bother to go to the police to-morrow.

They have my passport.

He dropped the match. Ill make a bet with you, Mr. Marlow. Ill bet you a thousand lire to a cake of soap that the police have mislaid your passport.

Good Heavens, why?

He shrugged. Its just a hunch.

A bad one, I hope. I wont take your bet. It would be sheer robbery. By the way-I glanced at the card lying on the desk-do you card-index all your acquaintances?

He shook his head. No, not all of them, Mr. Marlow. Only some of them. Its a sort of hobby with me, you see. Some people collect sea shells. I collect photographs.

He leaned forward suddenly, his jaw thrust out pugnaciously. Mr. Marlow, this evening is, to all intents and purposes, the first time weve met and Ive spent most of it so far in telling you a pack of lies. Youve probably guessed that already, because youve caught me out in one that I hadnt meant you to catch me out in. I didnt know that that photograph wasnt fixed properly. Well, all right. Thats about as bad a way of starting up a life-long friendship as I can think of off-hand. Theres a nice atmosphere of skulduggery and mistrust about it. You realise that you dont know who the Hell I am and decide that you dont want to know. Youre probably thinking that I must be some sort of crook. Splendid! And now Im going to ask you to let me give you a piece of advice. Im going to tell you that it wont cost you a cent, that, on the contrary, you stand to make big money by taking the advice, and youre going to wonder what my game is. And now, the whole thing is sounding to you about as phoney as a glass eye, isnt it?

It is, I said firmly; what is it to be, a vacuum cleaner or a refrigerator? I dont need either.

He frowned. Do you mind being serious for a moment, Mr. Marlow?

Im sorry. All this disarming candour has been a little too much for me.

Well now, Im going to ask you to trust me and take the advice.

Im always ready to listen to advice.

Good. Then my advice to you is to accept General Vagas invitation. He might have a proposition for you.

I faced him squarely. Now look here, Mr. Zaleshoff. I dont know what youve got in the back of your mind and I really am not interested. Furthermore, I quite fail to see what on earth an invitation issued to me has to do with you.

I still ask you to accept it.

Well, it may interest you to know that I have already decided to refuse it.

Then change your mind, Mr. Marlow.

I rose. I feel sure you will excuse me, Mr. Zaleshoff. Ive had a tiring day and Im not very fond of round games, even in the morning. Thank you for your dinner and for your very pleasant brandy. Perhaps you will allow me to return your hospitality some time. At the moment Im afraid I must go. Good night to you.

He stood up. Good night, Mr. Marlow. I shall look forward to seeing you again soon and having another chat.

I went to the door.

Oh, by the way.

I turned. He picked the card up from his desk and flicked it with a finger-nail. You may have noticed, he said slowly, that at the foot of this card there is a note. It says: See V. 18. Card V. 18 is in one of those filing cabinets. If, after you see General Vagas next time, you would like to inspect that card, I shall be delighted to get it out for you.

Why should I want to inspect it?

The V, Mr. Marlow, stands for Vagas.

Thats very interesting; but as I shant be seeing General Vagas I shrugged. Good night.

Pleasant dreams, Mr. Marlow.

I went.

My dreams that night were far from pleasant. I remember waking up at about half-past three from a nightmare in which Bellinetti was smothering me with huge stacks of photographs of General Vagas. But when I finally went to sleep again I was thinking of Claire. It was, after all, only a question of a month or two before I would see her again. Dear Claire.