5

I did not see Zaleshoff again for over a week.

The gods, like most other practical jokers, have a habit of repeating themselves too often. Man has, so to speak, learned to expect the pail of water on his head. He may try to side-step, but when, as always, he gets wet, he is more concerned about his new hat than the ironies of fate. He has lost the faculty of wonder. The tortured shriek of high tragedy has degenerated into a petulant grunt. But there is still one minor booby-trap in the repertoire which, I suspect, never fails to provoke a belly-laugh on Olympus. I, at any rate, succumb to it with regularity. The kernel of the jest is an illusion; the illusion that the simple emotional sterility, the partial mental paralysis that comes with the light of the morning, is really sanity.

The morning after that first curious evening with Zaleshoff was fine. It was cold, but the sun was shining and lighting up the faded green plush hangings of my room so that they looked more tawdry than they really were. The effect heightened the deception, coloured the illusion that now I was seeing clearly. Over my coffee I cheerfully pooh-poohed my sneaking apprehensions of the night before. The card index, this Americans mysterious hintings-what a lot of nonsense! I must have been crazy to think of taking it seriously. It was all, I assured myself, due simply to my ignorance of the Continental business atmosphere. I must not forget to make allowances for that factor. Fitch had warned me of it. Over there, he had said, they approach business as if it were a particularly dirty game of politics. Theyd sooner play politics really; but if they cant do that they play business in the same spirit. Zaleshoff the American had evidently caught the infection. He was probably working up to a proposal that Vagas should introduce me to a man with an order to place, and that a substantial commission (payable in advance) would secure adequate representation of Spartacus interests. Well, he wouldnt get the chance. I had too much real work to do to permit me to waste time with such childish nonsense.

I see now that it was a piece of self-deception that was very nearly conscious; but semi-conscious or not, it was thoroughly effective, almost too effective, for I forgot General Vagas and the fact that I had to put off my appointment with him until practically the last minute.

After an acrid morning with Bellinetti and his files, I went to the Amministrazione to collect my passport. After half an hour in the waiting-room, I wrung an admission from the attendant policeman that the signor Capitano was not in the building, and that he had left no instructions about either my identity card or my passport. If I would return later, all would arrange itself. I returned later and waited for a quarter of an hour. This time the policeman was more helpful. The signor Capitano had not returned, but he himself had made inquiries. The passport had been sent to the Foreign Department. It would, doubtless, be available on the following day. If I could call in then

But I did not call in on the following day. I did not call in until the following Tuesday. The reason for this was that on the Thursday night I went to Genoa.

As Pelcher had explained, one of my principal duties was to maintain personal contact with the users of Spartacus machines. Thursdays post had brought a letter from one of these users, a big engineering firm with works near Genoa, and, as the letter raised points of technical importance, I had decided to make it an excuse to visit them. I should, in any case, have gone, as I had found that my Italian, though equal to most ordinary demands upon it, was as yet far too sketchy to permit me to commit my thoughts on technical subjects to paper.

I spent Friday, Saturday and Monday in the customers works, and arrived back in Milan early on the Tuesday morning.

It had been my first direct contact with a customer, and I had been impressed by the evidence I had had of Mr. Pelchers earlier activities. There had been some trouble over Bellinettis lack of attention to their interests, but they had been notified by signor Pelcher of my arrival and all was now well. On Sunday the works manager had driven me to Portofino in his car, and had permitted me to buy him a very expensive lunch. There had been talk of an order for six more S2 machines. I had received veiled but precise instructions concerning the method of paying the secret commission, and learned that my German competitors were obtuse and parsimonious when it came to the arrangement of such affairs. It was understood, however, that Spartacus were a sympathetic company to deal with. Their machines, too, were of the best. The Government inspectors would be in the works on the Monday. If I could spare the time to meet them, it would be to my advantage. I had spared the time, and found the inspectors as tractable as, if rather more discreet than, the works manager.

I was both pleased and disgusted by my week-ends work. Fitch had warned me what to expect, and had, indeed, coached me carefully in the order-taking ritual; but the reality was disconcerting none the less. It was one thing to talk glibly of bribery and corruption; it was quite another thing actually to do the bribing and corrupting. Not, I reminded myself, that my part in the proceedings was anything but passive acquiescence. These people were already corrupt. It was merely a question of who paid-the German firm or Spartacus. Chi paga? was, after all, a favourite gibe in Italy. When in Rome Perhaps there was more to that old saw than met the eye.

With such things on my mind it was scarcely surprising that I should have forgotten that such persons as Zaleshoff and Vagas existed.

I was soon to be reminded of the fact.

The first reminder was contained in a long postscript to a letter from Claire that was waiting for me at the Hotel Parigi on my return. Here it is:

P.S.-By the way, Nicky my sweet, I think youll have to do something about the chambermaid or whoever it is who has access to your room. You may remember that you asked me to send you the Engineer each week (matter attended to, by the way), and that you wrote about it across the back of the envelope. Well, dear, in your little Miss Sherlocks opinion, the envelope was steamed open after that. What made me notice it particularly was a slight kink in the writing (you know how you run all the words together?), and when I looked at the envelope closely I could see a thin ridge of gum running round the edge of the flap and approximately. 05 cm. from it. I think that research grant they gave me years ago must have had a bad effect on me, because what must I do but rush out there and then and buy five different kinds of envelopes with which to experiment. First I sealed the five envelopes, then, after a two hours interval, I steamed them open again. Immediately after opening them I re-sealed them and left them until the morning when I compared the results with your envelope. All revealed the ridge of gum which (note the scientific mind at work) may, I suggest, be produced partly by the shrinkage of the paper flap following the steam treatment, and partly by the surface tension of the gum while it is in a liquid state. I am aware (O Shades of Socrates!) that there is nothing proved here, and that I ought to have kept quiet about it until I had tested at least five hundred sample envelopes, but I cant spare the time to do so and, in any case, prolonged steaming operations take the wave out of my hair. All the same, I thought Id better report. Shes probably jealous, my sweet. I advise prompt posting to avoid the crush. Love. Claire.

I thought carefully. It could not possibly have been the chambermaid. As soon as I had finished writing the letter, I had put it in the pocket of the suit I had been going to wear the following day. I had posted it in the hotel letter-box on my way out in the morning.

Then an unpleasant idea flashed through my mind. I examined the back of the envelope in which Claires letter to me had arrived. There, unmistakably, was the ridge of gum to which she had referred. There was no longer any doubt in my mind. My correspondence was certainly being read. The question was: by whom?

It might, of course, be one of the hotel employees; but there was an objection to that solution. The hotel letter-box was opened and cleared by the postman. I had seen him do the job. Probably, none of the hotel employees would have access to the contents of the box. In any case, it was located in full view of everyone near the reception counter. Very odd!

I bathed, changed, had some breakfast and went to the office. Bellinetti welcomed me effusively. Everything had arranged itself admirably while the Signore had been away. Umberto smiled shyly. Serafina was not there. I went to my room.

Who opened the post this morning, Bellinetti?

I did, Signore, as you instructed.

Good. I want to see the envelopes in which the letters came.

The envelopes, Signore? He smiled condescendingly. You mean the letters?

No, I mean the envelopes.

His eyebrows nearly touching his scalp, he retrieved the envelopes. I went through them one by one. The ridge of gum was evident in every case. I dropped the envelopes back into the wastepaper basket. He was watching me in mystified silence.

Can you think of anyone who would have either a reason for or an opportunity of steaming open and reading our correspondence, Bellinetti?

He blinked. Then his face became blank. No, Signore.

You havent an idea?

No, Signore.

Did you know that it was happening?

No, Signore.

I gave it up. Obviously, the news was no surprise to him. Equally obviously, he did not propose to discuss it. Grimly, I got on with my work.

After lunch, I went to the Amministrazione.

This time I was kept waiting for only five minutes. Then I was shown into the signor Capitanos office.

He nodded curtly.

Yes, your identity card is ready. He handed it to me. I will remind you again that it must be presented here each week for stamping.

I have to travel about the country a good deal on business. It is possible that I shall not be in Milan every week.

In such cases you will notify us here in advance.

Thank you. And my passport, please?

He frowned. But that matter has already been explained to you.

For some reason, my heart missed a beat.

Nothing has been explained to me. I was told last week that it was in the hands of the Foreign Department.

That is so. Unfortunately, he said blandly, it has been mislaid. We expect it to be found at any moment. When it is found it will be restored to you immediately. Until then, you have your permit.

But

You do not wish to leave Italy at present, do you?

No, but

Then your passport is unnecessary.

I swallowed hard.

But it is a valuable document. It cannot be mislaid.

He shrugged irritably. These things happen.

I shall report the matter to the British Consul immediately.

It has already been reported to your Consul.

This, as I soon found, was correct. I was interviewed at the Consulate by the same exquisite suit.

Bad luck, of course, agreed its owner amiably, but we cant do anything much about it, you know. We shall have to give them every chance to find it. Still, youre not wanting to leave the country at the moment, are you?

Not at the moment, I said reluctantly.

Then well see what happens. Very serious matter, you know, a lost passport. Well have to be very careful. Of course, if you did want to leave we could issue you with papers that would get you home. But then, that doesnt clear up the question of the passport. Well let you know as soon as we hear.

Back in the office, I lit a cigarette and sat down to think things over.

It may have been that, as I had spent the previous night dozing fitfully in a railway carriage, my powers of self-deception had fallen off a little; for now I began, for the first time, to allow myself to take Zaleshoff seriously. Zaleshoff had said that my passport would be mislaid. He had been right. A coincidence perhaps? No, that just would not do. It was too much of a coincidence. People didnt lose passports like that. And my comfortable explanation about commissions and introduction wouldnt do either. It didnt fit. My thoughts went back to the evening I had spent with him. There were a lot of things about that evening that needed explanation. Was it, for instance, pure coincidence that had led Zaleshoff to leaving his office at precisely the same time as I? I began to wonder. Then there was Vagas, with his obscure hintings, and Zaleshoffs curious insistence on my seeing the General again. Ferning came into it somewhere, too. I remembered that in my wallet was the page out of Fernings loose-leaf note-book. S.A. Braga of Turin was still unaccounted for. Card indexes V. 18 as phoney as a glass eye

I crushed my cigarette out impatiently. Fernings business was not my business. General Vagas sent cold shudders down my spine. Zaleshoff irritated me. The best course was to ignore the whole thing. It was absurd for a man of my age to take any notice of such childish nonsense. And then I remembered again about my passport. That was something I could not ignore. And there was this wretched business of the letters. Perhaps Zaleshoff knew something about that

I should probably have continued to think in this sort of circle if Umberto had not come into the room at that moment and put some papers on my desk. I looked up.

The list, Signore.

Oh yes. Thank you.

I had instructed Umberto to prepare for me a complete up-to-date list of all the Italian firms on the Spartacus books, together with the amount spent by each during the past year. I glanced at it. It was in alphabetical order. The fourth name down caught my eye. The reason was that the initial letter which determined its place in the list belonged to the third word in the title of the concern and for a moment I had thought that Umberto had made a mistake. Then, I looked again. Yes, there it was in black and white-Societa Anonima B RAGANZETTA, Torino. I had found S.A. Braga of Turin!

For a minute or two I sat looking at the name. There was no doubt about it. Braga. was simply Fernings abbreviation. I looked at the figure entered against the name. S.A. Braganzetta had spent a lot of money with Spartacus. I rang for Umberto.

Signore?

Bring me the records of all our transactions with the Braganzetta company of Turin.

He returned a few minutes later with a thick wad of papers. I went through them carefully. Soon I had learned all I wanted to know. I retained a series of specifications and returned the rest to Umberto. Then I took Fernings page of notes from my wallet and went through it item by item.

The first two lines were easy.

In December, Spartacus had delivered to the Braganzetta works three special high-production shell machining units. That accounted for the 3 specials. What followed immediately after that was just as obvious. The special feature about these machines had been, I saw from the specifications, the fact that they were adapted for producing a very much smaller class of shell than that for which the standard S2 range allowed. The shells in question were those for the twenty-five and forty millimetre automatic anti-aircraft guns, types L/64 and L/60, made by the Swedish firm of Borfors. I stand. 10.5 c.m. N.A.A. was a reference to a fourth and standard machine supplied for machining ten-point-five centimetre naval anti-aircraft gun shells. The 1,200 plus and 150 plus were references to the output potentialities of the machines in question.

Beyond that point, however, I could make nothing of it. What did Spez. and 6 m. belt and the rest of the page mean? I could trace no connection between it and any Spartacus dealings with Braganzetta. I puzzled over it for a bit and then put the paper back in my pocket. This much was clear. Fernings dealings with Vagas had had something to do with Spartacus. Therefore-I forced myself to face the conclusion with some reluctance-I, as the present representative of Spartacus in Milan, had more than my curiosity to satisfy. It was (I boggled at the word) my duty to keep my appointment with Vagas for the following evening-if only to hear his proposition.

The next moment I cursed myself for a fool. Vagas had said nothing about having any proposition to put to me. That was Zaleshoffs idea. Blast Zaleshoff! I was getting the man on the brain. And then I thought again. One of Zaleshoffs ideas had been right. This one might be. It would be wiser to see Vagas. Yes, that was the word-wiser. It could do no harm, anyway, and an evening at the ballet would do me good. There was this to be considered too: if I did not see him I should probably worry over the affair and wish that I had done so. Better get it over.

Having made this decision, I felt better. For the rest of the day I put the whole thing out of my mind and got on with the work in hand. My trip to Genoa had cost me time that I could ill afford at the moment, for, quite apart from the current work which had accumulated in my absence, there was the pressing business of a complete office reorganisation. As far as Bellinetti was concerned, I had come to a definite conclusion. His activities during my absence had confirmed me in my earlier opinion that he was thoroughly incompetent to organise the work of the office. His technical knowledge was non-existent. Ferning, I decided, must have been mad to engage him. Before I left the office that night and when the others had gone, I sat down at Umbertos typewriter and composed a confidential memorandum to Pelcher. I concluded by asking for permission to give Bellinetti notice. I added that I proposed to promote Umberto and engage a good typist, thus saving money and securing a more efficient organisation. This done, I went to the restaurant near the Piazza Oberdan, had some dinner and decided to walk back to the hotel and go straight to bed.

It was a cold night, but as it was fine, and as I needed the exercise, I took the slightly longer route through the Public Gardens.

A faint ground mist was rising and the electric lights glowed yellowly among the trees. Couples sat huddled on the benches or stood in the shadows or walked sedately arm-in-arm along the stone paths. But towards the centre of the gardens, where the lakes made the mist thick and dank, there were fewer persons about. I turned into a tree-shadowed path that ran parallel to one of the main avenues. It was then that I noticed the man behind me.

I had been thinking that, so far, I had been able to do nothing about moving from the Parigi, that every day I stayed there was a waste of money, and that, at the earliest possible moment, I must make a real effort to find a pensione. Something must be done, too, about my passport. Was it, I wondered vaguely, any use asking Fitch or Pelcher to try to press at the Foreign Office in London for action. The next moment, I tripped over one of my shoe laces.

I bent down near the railings to retie the lace. As I did so I saw out of the corner of my eye a slight movement near the railings about twenty yards back.

If I had not moved close to the railings with the idea of leaning against them while I tied the shoe, I should not have seen him. It was very dark beneath the trees. But the railings were in a direct line with a lantern over a gateway about a hundred yards along and, from where I stood, I could see, in faint silhouette, his head and shoulders.

I took no notice at first and finished tying up my lace. Then I glanced back again. The man had not moved. Mentally I shrugged. I walked on. A second or two later I heard a slight click behind me. I recognised the sound. A few yards back I had trodden on a loose drain cover. The man behind me had done the same thing. And then I stopped again. I dont quite know why I did so. It may have been the half-formed suspicion in my mind that the man behind me might be some sort of footpad. There had been something odd about the way he had remained motionless while I had re-tied my shoe. I went to the railings again and pretended to adjust the knot. I could no longer see him, but there was not a sound of footsteps, only the distant hum of traffic along the Corso Venezia. He must, I knew, still be there. I walked on quickly and cut across by the shortest possible route out of the gardens.

There was light now and I could see him, a short, stocky, overcoated figure with a high-crowned soft hat. He had dropped back a little, and was sauntering along with his hands in his pockets and his collar turned up. There was, I thought, something familiar about that hat. But I did not look back again. There was no doubt about it. I was being followed. Obviously, the motive could not be robbery. The opportunity for that had passed. The man might be a pimp who had marked me down as foreign, and therefore a sound business prospect; but it was unlikely. Pimps did not have the sort of staying power this man seemed to possess. A pimp would have tackled me before.

I turned off the main road and threaded my way quickly through a series of back streets to the Via Alessandro Manzoni. Then I looked back again. He was still there, a shadowy figure keeping close to the shadow of the wall.

I decided on action. I walked on rapidly until I came to a fairly quiet side street. On the corner I hesitated as though I were uncertain as to my whereabouts, then turned down the side street. A few yards along it I stopped and moved into the darkened entrance to a shop. A second or two later I heard the footsteps of the man behind me approaching. He was almost level with the shop when I stepped out and stood in the middle of the pavement. Facing me and looking as though he would have given anything to be able to turn tail and run, was Bellinetti.

He made a gallant effort to carry off the situation.

I thought I recognised you, Signore, but I could not be sure. I was alone. I thought that we might drink a cognac together.

With pleasure. We began to walk back to the main road. Do you often walk in the Gardens at night, Bellinetti?

On fine evenings, yes. You walk very fast, Signore.

There was a note almost of insolence in his voice. He had clearly recovered his composure. I took up the challenge.

Then, Bellinetti, I advise you not to try to keep up with me. Who knows what may happen to a man in your state of health.

My state of health, Signore?

You might be seriously injured at any moment, I said blandly.

He frowned. I am always very careful, Signor.

I am glad to hear it. We were passing a caffe. Shall we have our drink here?

Ten minutes later I resumed my walk back to the hotel. It would, I decided, be a distinct relief to be rid of signor Bellinetti. It was bad enough to have an inefficient assistant. An inefficient assistant who supplemented his office work by spying upon ones movements outside the office was intolerable.

There were two letters waiting for me when I got back to the hotel.

One was from my bank in London and concerned facilities for my drawing on their Milan agents. It was unimportant except for one thing. It was from England, and it had not been steamed open. Claires postscript had evidently been taken to heart by the unknown censor.

The other letter had been posted in Milan that afternoon. The envelope contained a small slip of paper with a single sentence typed on it:

ETHICALLY SPEAKING, YOU OWE ME A CAKE OF SOAP!

that was all. There was no signature.