“How many were there of them?”
“Four.”
“Could you recognise them?”
“No.” I told him what had happened.
He looked puzzled. “I don’t understand it.” Suddenly he leaned forward, took a piece of paper from the side pocket of my overcoat and held it up to me.
“Is this yours? It was sticking out of your pocket.”
“What is it?”
He opened it. It was a sheet about ten inches by eight inches. He glanced at it, then held it up for me to see. Scrawled across it in Italian was a single sentence:
NEXT TIME YOU WILL BE HURT
I stared at it, and as I stared I could feel my brain getting colder and colder and a slow sick rage rising in my chest.
“Have you seen Vagas to-day?” demanded Zaleshoff.
“He was waiting to see me at my hotel when I got back last night.”
“Were you followed?”
“Yes.”
“Vagas must have been seen leaving. They’re thinking…” He broke off. “Why did he come?”
“To increase his offer.”
He struck the palm of his hand with his fist. “They must be pressing him from Berlin. If only…”
“If only what?”
“Never mind. You’ve had enough for one night. Remember what I told you about the Ovra?”
“Yes, I remember.” But I wasn’t listening to what he was saying. I was busy with my own thoughts. I was making a decision.
The girl came in with the hot water. Between them they undressed me and he began to bathe the abrasions on my legs and arms. The process was painful. When it was finished he stuck a cigarette between my thickening lips and lighted it for me.
“Are you going to the police about this?”
“It would be rather a waste of time, wouldn’t it?”
“What about your Consul?”
“He can’t do more than badger the authorities, and as I’ve no description of the men to give, I can’t reasonably expect him to do anything.”
“I guess not.” Behind the smoke of his own cigarette he surveyed me speculatively. “What are you going to do?”
My lips tightened. “I’ll show you. Give me the telephone, will you?”
He glanced at me quickly but said nothing. He put the telephone at my elbow.
“Now give me Vagas’ number.”
“Nord 45–65.” He might have been telling me the time. I dialled the number. I had just got through to Vagas when Tamara returned.
“This is Marlow here, General… yes, very well. I saw the Commendatore this morning… charming. What I telephoned you about was to tell you that I have reconsidered the suggestion you made to me the other night… yes… yes, I think so. Naturally these things have to be carefully considered… quite. Now I suggest that this business would be handled more discreetly through the poste restante…”
When at last I put the telephone down they were both staring at me as though I had gone mad; as, indeed, I had.
“You’d better understand here and now, Zaleshoff,” I said grimly, “that I’m not taking any money from you over this business. I’m doing it to satisfy my own private sense of the fitness of things. And now, if you’ve quite finished staring, I’d like someone to get busy with that tincture of arnica. Then, if your sister doesn’t mind, I’d like something to eat.”
“Yes, surely!” For the second time, I saw Zaleshoff disconcerted. Then, as he began to dab the arnica on my legs, he chuckled.
“Tamara.”
“Yes, Andreas.”
“Wasn’t Spartacus the slave who rebelled?”
10
From “N. Marinetti” to “J. L. Venezetti,” Poste Restante, Wagon-Lits-Cook, Milano.
Milano,
April 9.
Dear Sir,
Further to our telephone conversation of yesterday, I enclose details of the past three months’ transactions and trust that this meets with your approval.
Yours faithfully,
N. Marinetti.
From “J. L. Venezetti” to “N. Marinetti,” Poste Restante, American Express, Milano.
Milano,
April II.
Dear Sir,
Thank you for your letter and enclosure. I had expected only the details for the current month. The remaining material is, however, of value. I therefore enclose five thousand-lire notes instead of three as arranged in consideration of the extra material supplied. I also enclose the specifications and form of tender handed to me by Commendatore B. and trust that this business will go well. I look forward to your further communications.
Yours faithfully,
J. L. Venezetti.
From “N. Marinetti” to “J. L. Venezetti,” Poste Restante, Wagon-Lits-Cook, Milano.
Milano,
April 12.
Dear Sir,
Your letter and enclosures safely received. I shall be writing to you again in three weeks’ time. With thanks.
Yours faithfully,
N. Marinetti.
From myself to Claire.
Hotel Parigi,
April 11.
Darling,
I’m afraid that I’m turning out a very bad correspondent, after all. It’s at least a week since I wrote to you, and to make it worse I had your letter this morning. It made me feel very guilty. But the fact is, my sweet, that I had a bit of an accident a day or so ago. Nothing serious. A few bruises only. But I had to spend a day in bed; and with the way things are at the office that has meant that I’ve had the devil’s own job catching up with the work that has accumulated. I’ve also had to waste to-day going to Cremona to see some people about a complaint-an additional complication. All of which is by way of being not only an apologia, but also a delicate preamble to what I really have to say.
Do you remember, darling, that when we discussed my taking this job originally, we decided that it should be
