“But just…”
“Absolutely nothing doing,” I repeated firmly. “I’m…”
“Yes, yes,” he put in testily; “you’re an engineer and you’re here on business, and you’re not going to get yourself into the sort of spot Ferning got into. I know. But wait a minute.” He became eager. “There’s no question of you’re getting into a spot. The only thing is to avoid any actual meeting with Vagas. As long as the Ovra don’t see that you’re in touch with him you’re all right. You can telephone him and arrange to communicate through the poste restante with assumed names. He won’t mind that. It’ll please him. If he thinks you’re scared but dead set on the money, he’ll also think that you’ll be easier to deal with when it comes to putting the screw on. As for Spartacus, you needn’t give Vagas the real dope, you can cook up anything. He won’t bother to check it. Then if he should turn nasty over anything and write to Pelcher, you’ll be quite O.K. All you have to do is to send Vagas three letters. The first’ll be a cooked Spartacus report on the past month’s activities. He’ll want that. When he’s got it he’ll increase his demands. Right. Your next report in a month’s time will contain some additional dope, among it an item about the delivery of three special hydraulic lifts for aircraft. The third report will give news of consignments of ammunition bound for the same places. Just enough for him to be able to piece the story together for himself. For doing just that, Marlow, you get six thousand lire from Vagas and ”-he looked me in the eyes-“another six thousand from me.”
I looked from one to the other. The girl, her head bent over the hem of the blouse she was making, was apparently unaware that we were there; but I saw that the needle had stopped moving and that her fingers were poised delicately like those of a woman in a Dutch painting. Zaleshoff had suddenly busied himself with the lighting of a cigarette.
I cleared my throat loudly. “I think, Zaleshoff,” I said evenly, “that the time has come for you to explain just what personal interest you have in this business. Where do you come in? In other words, what’s your game?”
He looked with well-simulated surprise. “My game? I have no game.” An expression of disarming sincerity, of rugged candour, appeared suddenly on his face. “Put me down, Marlow, as a simple American with a little more money than I need”-he repeated this-“more money than I need. That’s the plain truth of it, I guess. I’m a simple American who hates war. But I want to do something more than hate.” His voice vibrated with evangelical feeling. “I want to help make the peace we all want in a more practical way than just by talking. The world is in a bad way, Marlow. What it needs is good management. I’m a business man, Marlow, a pretty successful one, though I say it myself. This little old world wants running on business lines. I’m a doer, Marlow, not a thinker. Thinking’s not going to get us any place. We need the co-operation of practical men. That’s why I’m appealing to you, Marlow. You’re a practical man. We men of goodwill have just got to get together, roll up our sleeves and get something done, eh?” He beamed at me, a benevolent Babbitt with a parcel of real-estate to unload.
It was nauseating, it was grotesque. I stared at him, speechless. At last I got to my feet.
“Well, well. I’m afraid it’s rather late. I shall have to be going.” I went across the room and picked up my overcoat. They watched me in silence. Zaleshoff’s beam had eased into a scowl. I put my overcoat on and went towards the door. “Thanks again,” I said, “for a very good dinner.”
“Just a minute.” It was Zaleshoff, a very hard-voiced Zaleshoff.
“What is it?”
“I’m waiting for an answer from you.”
I turned round. “Yes, of course. I was forgetting.” I put my hand into my overcoat pocket and drew out a small parcel that was in it. I had purchased this parcel that afternoon. Now I planked it down on the table.
“What’s that?” demanded Zaleshoff suspiciously.
I opened the door.
“It’s the cake of soap I owe you,” I said carefully. “Luckily, I was able to get one in the shape of a lemon.” I nodded genially. “Good night to you both.”
Not a muscle of Zaleshoff’s face moved. He just stood there looking at me, a curious expression in his eyes. The girl shrugged and returned to her sewing. I went.
The entrance to Zaleshoff’s place was in a short alleyway at the side of the shop. It was very dark in the alleyway. The man standing on the far side of the street did not see me immediately; but as I stepped into the light I saw him turn away quickly and stare into a shop window.
I turned in the direction of the Parigi. A little way down I stopped and lighted a cigarette. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was following me. It was not, however, Bellinetti. This man was taller. I did not look back again but walked straight on to the hotel. If what Zaleshoff had said were true, the best possible thing I could do was to behave as naturally as possible. I had nothing to hide and did not intend to have anything to hide. If the secret police wished to waste their time following me, that was their lookout.
All the same, it was an uncomfortable feeling. I felt myself walking a little stiffly and self-consciously. I began to think of the story Zaleshoff had told me about Ferning’s death. In my mind’s eye I saw him walking along a street as I was now walking. He must have heard the car coming before it hit him: and in that final second those anxious eyes, that flat, plump jowl must have been distorted with terror. I thought of his bald head. It must have bobbed absurdly as he went down. But it was all, I told myself, a product of Zaleshoff’s imagination. Such things didn’t happen. Then a stray car swinging out of a side street in front of me made me jump badly. I felt myself break out into a sweat. It was all I could do to prevent myself from running. I was heartily thankful when I reached the hotel.
The clerk beckoned to me from his desk.
“There is a letter for you, Signore. And a gentleman is waiting to see you. He was told that you might be late, but he wished to wait. He was shown into the writing-room where it is warm.”
I took the letter. “Who is it?”
“I was not on duty when he arrived, Signore. He left no name.”
“All right, thanks.”
I went into the writing-room.
Sitting comfortably near a radiator and reading a paper was Vagas.
9
As I came into the room, he put his paper down and got to his feet. He was in evening clothes.
“Good evening, Mr. Marlow.”
“Good evening, General.” I did not feel particularly cordial, and could not have sounded so, for he coughed apologetically.
“I hope you will forgive this intrusion. I was particularly anxious to see you.”
“By all means.” I made an effort to sound enthusiastic. “May I offer you a drink?”
“Thank you, no. Perhaps one of your English cigarettes… thank you. Shall we sit down? I shall not detain you long.”
“I beg your pardon. Yes, please sit down.”
“Thank you.” He sat down and glanced round the room distastefully. “I should find this a very depressing atmosphere, Mr. Marlow. This Utrecht green, these faded reminders of an effete imperialism. Buonaparte always seems to me a slightly pathetic figure: a parvenu with a talent for making fools of wiser men: a man with a taste for the grandiose and the soul of an accountant. Don’t you agree with me?”
“Most of my time here I spend in bed.” It was perhaps a little too pointed, but he nodded calmly enough.
“Yes, of course. You must be a very busy man. I will explain the reason for this somewhat unconventional visit. Last night…” He stopped. “By the way, I hope you weren’t too bored.”
“Not in the least. It was a most pleasant evening.”
“I’m so glad. My wife found you charming.”
“Please convey my respects to Madame Vagas.”
“Thank you. However,” he went on, “there is one matter on which I should like to say more.”
