October Men

now, you know—not a chance of it. And don't say you haven't had the leave for it, either.'

Boselli, greatly daring, cleared his throat.

'I have the Audley files here, sir.'

The General still didn't look at him. Indeed, neither of them gave the least sign that they had even heard him speak. It was just as though he didn't exist, or that he existed in some other space and time, a shadow man with his armful of shadow documents desperately waiting for someone in a warmer, more real world to notice him. He had a sudden pathetic desire to scream and stamp and throw all his paperwork into the air, and shout rude gutter words.

Instead, he felt himself shrinking, the sweat on his forehead cold in the General's air conditioning, and he knew he would stand there, meek and eager, until his turn at the end of the queue came. There was nothing new in this, it was the very pattern of his existence. Rather must he watch patiently for the arrival of his moment, when the General and Villari came down to earth. They would need him then—they always did in the end.

'Not a chance is dead right,' Villari gave a snort. 'Nobody dummy2

who works for you has time for fun—or games. It's getting so a chap can't even slip through Rome for a day without you catching him. And it's the wrong season for trouble—this Audley of yours has no breeding.'

'Audley? So you know about him?' The General's arm delivered a final man-to-man slap and then fell away from the shoulders. He turned abruptly and bent a fierce eye on Boselli at last.

Boselli tried for one second to match the eye and the hard set of the mouth, but his face instantly turned traitor on him with an expression of total obsequiousness.

'I—' Boselli ran out of words after the first squeak, looking helplessly from one man to the other. From Villari he expected—and received—nothing, neither explanation nor even recognition. And from the General—with the General it was always the same: there seemed to lie between them (at least in Boselli's mind) unasked for the knowledge that when he had been a pimply youth toying with the idea of the seminary the General had been a daring Bersaglieri captain, raider of British airfields, and then the leader of the Partisan group which had ambushed Panzergeneral Hofacker in the mountains.

And hot on that memory came the comparison of his wife's sagging body with those of the gorgeous creatures the General always had at heel, despite his age and disabilities.

The General couldn't help it—he rarely even barked at Boselli. The trouble was, he didn't have to.

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'I don't know about him,' said Villari offhandedly. 'I know of him, of course.'

'What do you know of him, boy?' the General snapped.

'Not much, to be honest,' Villari gave the General a sidelong glance. 'The British don't concern me directly—or do they?'

'Just answer the question,' repeated the General with a small cutting edge in his voice now which warmed Boselli.

This was more like the real man he knew.

Villari sketched a shrug, unsnubbed, as though the matter was of little importance to him, ignoring or pretending to ignore the danger sign. 'He's a university professor, or that's his cover anyway.'

'He has been attached to a university, that's true. Go on.'

But only partly true, Boselli thought gleefully. The Clotheshorse was already giving himself away.

'Go on,' repeated the General.

'Well, he writes history books of some sort—about the Arabs, I seem to remember. Or something like that. And he's one of Sir Frederick—ah—Clinton's group—'

'And what do you know about that,' the General pounced hard.

Villari grinned at him boyishly. 'Frankly, damn all, General.

Am I supposed to? I didn't think the British were in my sphere of operations.'

'Where did you hear about Audley?'

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'Hell, I don't know,' Villari was something less sure of himself now, and something less than convincing. 'I keep my ear to the ground—I hear all sorts of things.'

Mostly bottles opening and bedroom doors closing, thought Boselli. That was the strength of it.

'You've never met Audley, then?'

'No, never.' Villari used the certainty of his reply to cover the relief in his voice, without realising that he was thereby admitting that he knew what Audley looked like, Boselli thought with instant contempt. If this were the pride of the German section, then God help them: no wonder they gave him so much time off to ski. He gave himself away every time he opened his handsome mouth.

But the General was obviously not interested in pursuing Villari's incompetence any farther. He retired to the farther side of his desk and sat down heavily.

'Tell him, Boselli,' he ordered dispassionately.

Boselli gave a guilty start. 'Tell him what, sir? About Dr.

Audley?'

'The Clinton group first. And don't stand there sweating—sit down.' The General waved a hand. 'Sit down both of you.

And make it brief, Boselli. I haven't all the afternoon.'