of being independent, of being to some extent on holiday. This business of Zaleshoff’s was, I felt, almost in the nature of a game. That I did not know the rules of it was, no doubt, just as well for my peace of mind.
Since the night I had spent in his office, I had seen Zaleshoff practically every day. At first his mood had been one of lip-smacking anticipation. Everything, he assured me repeatedly, was prepared. It was only a question of waiting for Vagas to begin to turn the screw. Then, as the month wore on without any sign of life from Vagas, his jubilation gave way to gloomy forebodings. He became irritable. Several times I was tempted to abandon the whole thing and twice threatened to do so. On both occasions he offered exasperated apologies. My admiration for his sister’s forbearance increased daily. Yet, to a certain extent, I could understand his anxiety.
“I’m beginning to think,” he declared gloomily on one occasion, “that it was a mistake to cook those Spartacus figures.”
“You know darn well I wouldn’t have given him the correct ones.”
“Very likely. But he’s probably gone to the trouble to check the first lot and found that they’re phoneys. He probably thinks you put one over on him to get that Ordnance Department contract and has written you off as a bad investment.”
“How could he check them?”
“How should I know? But it’s the only thing that can have happened. How else can you explain this silence? He’s got all the stuff he wants to blackmail you with. Why doesn’t he get on with it?”
“Perhaps he’s waiting until I send in this month’s figures, sort of lulling me into a sense of false security.”
“Maybe. I hope you’re right. This waiting is getting on my nerves.”
That much was obvious. The reason for it puzzled me. I myself was conscious of a sense of anti-climax, almost of disappointment; but I was intrigued by his attitude. Why should the situation get on his nerves to so absurd an extent? For me it was no more than a somewhat sinister game. For him it looked like a matter of life and death importance. A great many of the things which Vagas had told me were, no doubt, lies. But, in one thing, at least, he had, I felt, told me something approaching the truth.
Over our coffee one evening I worked round to the subject. It was fairly easy to do. His despair had been more than usually extravagant. I awaited an opening. Then:
“I admit that it’s all very irritating. But, for the life of me, Zaleshoff, I cannot see why you should take it so much to heart.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You don’t think that the peace of Europe is something that a guy can get anxious about?” His tone was almost offensively sarcastic.
“Oh yes. The peace of Europe, to be sure! But if we could get down to Mother Earth for a minute…”
“Mother Earth!” His voice rose angrily. “Mother Earth! Say, listen, Marlow. It pains me to have to tell you this because, dumb cluck that you are, it would be just as well if you didn’t know it: but you, Heaven protect us, happen to be of some importance at the moment. Say, have you ever had a suitcase to unlock and a bunch of odd keys in your hand? There’s just one key that fits. None of the others matters a curse. They’re keys but they’re not the key. Well, it’s like that now. And you’re the key.”
I was a little irritated by his manner. “What about leaving out the metaphors and trying plain English?”
“Sure! In plain English, the Germans are doing their damnedest to drive a wedge in the Anglo-Italian Mediterranean accord. They’re out to preserve the Axis. Without it they can’t make another move in Eastern Europe. And they’ve got to make that move. You know what old man Aristotle said. The tyrant who impoverishes the citizens is obliged to make war in order to keep his subjects occupied and impose on them permanent need of a chief. Italy’s sitting pretty now. She can play off Germany against France and England. But that’s only because she’s got a stake in both camps. The Axis is just as vital to her as it is to Germany. If once she gets into a position where she has to become a dependency of the City of London, she’s done. They’ll finance her heavy industries, choke her with credits until the lira is so sick it can’t stand. Then they’ll tie a ribbon round Mussolini and give him to the Germans as a Christmas present. Italy’s strength in the south is the Axis in the north. It’s only mutual distrust that is going to counteract the identity of interests between Germany and Italy. For some crack-brained reason you, Marlow, are in a position to turn their suspicions into downright distrust. And you ask me why I’m anxious!”
“And I still do ask you why you are anxious.”
He knitted his brow, a man driven to exasperation but restraining himself with an effort. “Do I have to go over all that again?”
“I think,” put in the girl, “that what Mr. Marlow is getting at is what the heck it’s got to do with you.”
He drew a deep breath. “I’m an American citizen,” he began impressively, “and…”
“I know,” I put in furiously; “you’re an American citizen and you think that us men of goodwill ought to get together and co-operate to save the peace of Europe. I know. I’ve heard it all before. But it still doesn’t answer my question. Vagas warned me against you. You knew that he might, didn’t you? And you thought you’d take the sting out of that warning by letting me see that you’d expected it. But what you don’t know is that he told me that you and your sister were Soviet Government agents. What have you got to say to that?”
He looked at me. His jaw dropped. Then he looked at the girl. Her expression was utterly non-committal. He looked back at me again. I nearly permitted myself a grin of triumph. Fortunately for my dignity I did not do so for, suddenly, he began to roar with laughter and slap his knee. “Soviet agents!” he bellowed hysterically; “that’s too good! Oh my!”
I waited stolidly until he had finished. Then:
“You still,” I said dryly, “haven’t answered my question.”
He became suddenly serious. “One moment, Marlow. Before you jump to any rash conclusions, think. What would I, a respectable American, want with…”
Disgustedly, I waved him into silence. “All right, all right! let it go.”
“And…”
“Let it go. But”-I wagged a finger at them-“don’t blame me if I draw my own conclusions, will you?”
“Why should we blame you, Mr. Marlow?” said the girl pleasantly.
For some reason the question embarrassed me. I let the subject drop. Privately, however, I registered a decision to bring it up again: but the opportunity of doing so did not present itself immediately. Three days later, to Zaleshoff’s noisily expressed delight, I received Vagas’ letter.
At half-past two on the Sunday afternoon, I left the Hotel Parigi, followed, as usual, by two drab-looking men, and met Zaleshoff at a caffe near the Castello. Tamara was not with him. He ordered a coffee for me and looked at his watch.
“We’ve got about ten minutes to go before we need start.”
“Start what?”
“To lose those two shadows of yours.”
“But I’m not meeting Vagas until nearly eleven to-night.”
“Maybe not, but we start the good work this afternoon.”
“Look here, Zaleshoff,” I protested irritably, “isn’t it about time you told me what this is all about?”
“I was just going to. Listen. You’ve got to get rid of those two guys somehow, and they’re not going to fall for anything elementary like walking into an hotel with two exits. I’ve watched them on the job. They know their stuff. Besides, if you try to put one over on them they’ll know you’re up to something, and that’d be nearly as bad as their knowing what it is you’re up to. We don’t want that. You’ve got to give them the slip by accident-at least so that it looks like an accident. That’s where the procession comes in.”
“What procession?”
“Fascist Youth Movements-the Balilla and Avanguardisti — military boy scouts. They’re marching up from the Centrale station, about ten thousand of them, with bands and a detachment of Blackshirts. They’re all coming in from Cremona, Brescia, Verona and a few more places by special trains. Then they’re going to march to the Piazza Duomo to listen to one of the Fascist bosses telling them what a fine thing war is and be reviewed. Then they’re going to sing the Giovinezza and march back again. It’s when they’re marching back that you do the trick.”
“What trick? Don’t tell me that I’ve got to dress up as an Italian Boy Scout and fall in with the procession, because I won’t do it.”
“This is serious.”
