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-end’s 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 you’ll 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 Sherlock’s 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 can’t 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 I’d better report. She’s 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 Claire’s 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 haven’t 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 Capitano’s 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 can’t do anything much about it, you know. We shall have to give them every chance to find it. Still, you’re not wanting to leave the country at the moment, are you?”
“Not at the moment,” I said reluctantly.
“Then we’ll see what happens. Very serious matter, you know, a lost passport. We’ll 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 doesn’t clear up the question of the passport. We’ll 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 didn’t lose passports like that. And my comfortable explanation about commissions and introduction wouldn’t do either. It didn’t 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
