“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 friend’s 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 employer’s 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 I’ve 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. I’ll have a word with the Consul about it. But I shouldn’t worry. If you don’t 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, wasn’t 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 Volver’ampton. 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 Ferning’s 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.”
