feverishly the one simple sentence I had to say. The crowd began to cheer. The first detachment of Avanguardisti wheeled out and formed up behind the band. The drum-major threw out his chest, his legs stiffened into the Roman goose-step, he tossed his baton into the air, caught it neatly and twirled it. The band stepped out.
They were now not more than fifty yards away. Thirty yards. I waited frantically for Tamara’s signal. But it did not come. Then I remembered my part and began to wave excitedly to her. Twenty-five yards. The applause of the crowd was swelling up, sweeping along the street like a tide over sand-flats. I was nearly sick with apprehension. Another second and it would be too late; Zaleshoff’s fine plan would have failed. He would have to think of something else. The noise of the band and the cheering became deafening. Then I saw her waving to me. It was the signal.
I started forward into the roadway and gripped the militiaman’s arm. He was getting ready to come to attention and half-turned in an effort to shake me off. I hung on.
“My wife, Signore!” I shouted in his ear. “We were separated in the crowd and she is opposite-can I get across?”
As I said it, I released his arm and started forward. I heard him shout something after me but what it was I do not know. On top of his anxiety to come to attention at the right moment, my question had disconcerted him enough to prevent his making an effort to stop me. Now it was too late. I was half-way across the road.
It could not have taken me more than eight seconds or so to cross. It seemed like eight minutes. I felt, and probably was for that short space of time, the most conspicuous object in Milan.
In the middle I stumbled and for one ghastly instant I saw the procession advancing head-on towards me. Then the faces and the fluttering flags on the opposite kerb came nearer and I saw Tamara again flapping her handkerchief at me. The militiaman in front of her frowned at me, but he was now standing stiffly at attention and made no movement. The fat man waved his flag in my face. The woman in mourning mouthed angrily at me but the noise drowned what she said. Then the girl caught my arm and started to draw me after her through the crowd. The fat man, divining that the movement would give him more room, made way. A moment or two later we were behind the crowd. I drew a deep breath.
“Phew! Thank Heavens that’s over!”
She was choking with laughter.
“What is it?” I demanded irritably.
“Their faces! You didn’t see their faces!”
“Whose faces?”
“Your two shadowers. They tried to push through the crowd after you. The crowd thought they were trying to get to the front to see the procession better and got mad. Someone knocked one of their hats off. It was lovely.”
“I thought you were never going to signal.”
“I know you did. But I had to leave it to the last moment.” She indicated a side turning. “We go down here.”
Two streets away, in the Via Oriani, we came upon a large Fiat limousine standing with its engine running. Inside it was Zaleshoff. As we came up, he got out.
“All right?” he asked the girl.
“All right. Couldn’t be better. They won’t be able to get this side for another three-quarters of an hour at least.”
“Good.” He nodded to me. “Nice work. Hop in.”
I got in the back and he followed me. The girl got into the driving-seat.
Reaction had set in. For some reason I had begun to shake from head to foot.
Zaleshoff offered me a cigarette. I took it.
“Well,” I said acidly, “what do we do from now until half-past ten to-night? Hide?”
He lit his own cigarette and stretched himself luxuriously on the cushions. “Now,” he said comfortably, “we’re going to enjoy ourselves. Step on it, Tamara.”
We drove out along the autostrada to Como, went for a trip on a lake steamer and had dinner at a restaurant overlooking the lake. I enjoyed myself enormously. The sun had only just gone down by the time we had finished our dinner and for a time we sat out on the terrace drinking our coffee and smoking.
The stars were almost dazzlingly bright. At one end of the terrace there was a clump of cypresses looking like thick black fingers against the blue-black sky. There was a smell of pine resin in the air. I had forgotten about my companions and was thinking of Claire, wishing that she had been there, when Zaleshoff spoke.
“What are you going to do when you get back to England?”
I came out of my trance and looked towards him. I could see his shadow and that of the girl and two cigarette tips glowing.
“How did you know I was going back to England?”
I sensed rather than saw his shrug. “I guessed from your manner. There’s been an atmosphere of suspended animation about it.” He paused. “This business has kind of taken the heart out of the Spartacus job, hasn’t it?”
“This business and other things.” I felt suddenly that I wanted to talk to someone about it; but all I did was to ask a question. “Do you know a man named Commendatore Bernabo?”
“The guy you bribed to get that machinery order?”
I jumped. That was something about which I had not gone into details with Zaleshoff.
“Yes, that’s the man. But I didn’t tell you that either.”
“These things get around. Bribery’s an old Italian custom.”
“There are a lot of old Italian customs I don’t like.”
He chuckled. “For a business man, you’re a bit fussy, aren’t you?”
“I’m not a business man. I’m an engineer.”
“Ah yes. I was forgetting. My apologies.”
“Besides, I still have a bruise or two on my body.” I hesitated. “I suppose I shall have to get another job.”
“Making shells instead of selling the machinery for making them?”
“There are other things for an engineer to make.”
“Sure!” He paused again. “I thought you told me that you only took the job because you couldn’t get anything better.”
“I read in a trade paper yesterday that there’s a shortage of skilled engineers at the moment.”
I heard him blow smoke out of his mouth. “Yes, I read that article too.”
“ You read it?”
“I read a lot of things. That article was, if I remember, based on the statement made by the managing director of an armament firm, wasn’t it?”
To my annoyance, I felt myself blushing. I was glad that it was dark.
“What of it?” I said indifferently. “Someone’s got to do the job.”
He laughed, but without good humour. “The stock reply according to the gospel of King Profit. Industry has no other end or purpose than the satisfaction of the business man engaged in it. Demand is sacred. It may be a demand for high explosives to slaughter civilians with or one for chemical fertilisers, it may be for shells or it may be for saucepans, it may be for jute machinery for an Indian sweat-shop or it may be for prams, it’s all one. There’s no difference. Your business man has no other responsibility but to make profits for himself and his shareholders.”
“All that’s nothing to do with me.”
“Of course it isn’t,” he rejoined sarcastically, “you’re only the guy that makes it possible. But you also may be the guy that gets squashed to a paste when those shells and high explosives start going off-you and your wife and kids.”
“I haven’t got a wife and kids,” I said sullenly.
“So what?”
“Damn it, Zaleshoff, I’ve got to eat. If there’s a shortage of skilled engineers and I’m a skilled engineer, what do you expect me to do? Get up on a soap box?”
“In a year’s time, my dear Marlow, the same trade paper will be telling you that there are too many skilled engineers. Too many or too few-too much or too little-empty stomachs or overfed ones-the old, old story. When are you English going to do something about it?”
