“Are you speaking as an American or a Russian?”
“What difference does it make? Isn’t it common-sense to replace an old, bad system with a better one?”
“You mean Socialism?”
I must have said it derisively for he laughed and did not answer.
“The moon’s rising,” said Tamara suddenly. I looked. A curved sliver of yellow light was visible above the trees.
“Picture postcard,” commented Zaleshoff; “but good picture postcard.” He got up. “It’s time we went.”
We paid the bill and in silence began to walk back to where we had left the Fiat. The way lay down a lighted road. We were about half-way down it when, without thinking, I looked over my shoulder.
“No,” murmured Zaleshoff, “they’re not there. We left them behind in Milan.”
“I wasn’t…” I began. Then I stopped. He was right. I had got used to the idea of being followed. Things, I reflected bitterly, had come to a pretty pass. I had a sudden nostalgia for home, for London. I would go home next week, get away out of this miserable atmosphere of double-dealing, of intrigue, of violence. It would be fine to see Claire. The night I got back we would go to the Chinese place to eat. You didn’t get a moon or stars like this in London, but there you weren’t followed by Italian detectives in Homburg hats. The Boy Scouts didn’t march as well as the Balilla, but there were no loudspeakers to bawl stuff at them about the beauties of war.
And then, for no particular reason, I found myself thinking of something Hallett had once said. It had been after lunch and we had been looking at some newspaper photographs of a Nazi mass demonstration. I had made some comment about the efficiency of German propaganda methods. He had laughed. “It’s efficient because it’s got to be. The British governing class never has that particular worry. In England, people read their newspapers and kid themselves.” But then, as I was always reminding myself when I thought of things Hallett had said, the man was a Socialist. And Zaleshoff I believed to be a Communist, a Bolshevik agent. It was time that I pulled myself together and behaved like a reasonable being. It was sheer lunacy to go through with this plan of Zaleshoff’s.
I had had one very forcible warning. Next time I should no doubt be dealt with in the same way as Ferning had been dealt with. I made up my mind.
“By the way,” I said, as I got into the car, “I’ve decided to call this business off this evening.” As I said it I felt ashamed. But there was, I told myself, no other way.
Zaleshoff had been about to follow me into the car. He stopped. The girl turned her head and giggled.
“A bad joke, Mr. Marlow; but then I always said the English sense of humour was distinctly…”
“Just a minute, Tamara.” Zaleshoff’s voice was quiet enough, but the words were like drips of ice-cold water. “You are joking, aren’t you, Marlow?”
“No.” It was all I could manage.
“A bad joke, indeed!” he said slowly. He got in the car and sat down heavily beside me. “May one inquire the reason for this sudden decision?”
I found my tongue. “Put yourself in my position, Zaleshoff. I’ve got everything to lose by doing this and nothing to gain. I…”
“Just a minute, Marlow. Listen to me. I give you my solemn word that in doing this you are not only helping your own country considerably but also millions of other Europeans. The other day you asked me what the devil this had to do with me. That I cannot explain to you for reasons that you, I fancy, may have a shrewd notion about. You must take my word for it that I am on the side of the angels. And by angels I don’t mean British and French statesmen and bankers and industrialists. I mean the people of those countries and of my own, the people who can resist the forces that have beaten the people of Italy and Germany to their knees. That’s all.”
I hesitated. I hesitated miserably. At last: “It’s no use, Zaleshoff,” I muttered, “it just isn’t worth my while to do it.”
“It isn’t worth your while?” he echoed. Then he laughed. “I thought you said you weren’t a big business man, Mister Marlow!”
Towards eleven o’clock I drove slowly along the autostrada away from Milan. I had left Zaleshoff and the girl at a caffe a mile back; but Zaleshoff’s final instructions were still churning round inside my head. “Fight him tooth and nail. Be as angry as you like. But for goodness’ sake don’t forget to give in.”
The April sky was now clouded over. It was warm enough inside the car, but I found myself shivering a little. I found that my foot kept easing gradually off the accelerator. Then I saw ahead two red lights close together.
Although I had been expecting to see them, they made me start. I slowed down and switched on the headlights. It was a large car, well into the side under some bushes overhanging the road from the embankment above. I switched off the headlights, drew up a few yards behind it and waited. Then I saw General Vagas get out and walk back towards me.
12
The manner of the General’s greeting was that of a man ruefully amused at the antics of a rather troublesome child.
“Good evening, Mr. Marlow.”
“Good evening, General. You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, I did. But this”-he waved his hand expressively at our surroundings and broke off-“I hope your taste for the melodramatic is satisfied?”
“I do not like melodrama any more than you do, General,” I retorted. “I was anxious only to be discreet.”
In the reflected light from the lamp on the instrument board I saw his thick lips twist humorously.
“A very desirable anxiety, Mr. Marlow. You must forgive me if I find the result a trifle exaggerated.”
“You wanted to see me?” I repeated.
“Yes.” But he was evidently determined to take his time. “I understand that you secured the Commendatore’s contract.”
“I did. I trust that you were satisfied with my efforts to return the compliment?”
“Quite.” He hesitated. “But it was on that subject that I wanted to speak to you.”
“Yes?”
He peered inside the car.
“Ah, leather seats! I think that my car is a little more comfortable than yours. Supposing we go and sit in it.”
“I find this one quite comfortable.”
He sighed. “I don’t seem to sense that atmosphere of mutual confidence and respect that I am most anxious should surround our relations, Mr. Marlow. However”-he opened the door-“I hope that you will not mind if I get in and sit beside you. The night air in the country is cold and my chest is delicate.” He coughed gently to emphasise the point.
“By all means, get in.”
“Thank you.” He got in, shut the door and sniffed the air. “A cigar, Mr. Marlow, and a very bad one. Really, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of tobacco.”
Inwardly I twitched with annoyance. The smell of the atrocious weed Zaleshoff had smoked on the way back from Como still clung to the upholstery. I muttered an apology.
“I have some English cigarettes, if you would prefer one.”
“I would. Thank you.” He took one, lit it at the match I held out to him and inhaled deeply. He blew the smoke out slowly and gently. I waited in silence.
“Mr. Marlow,” he said suddenly, “something a little unfortunate has happened.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. Something that, quite frankly, I feel almost ashamed to tell you.”
“Oh?”
His manner became that of a man who had decided on a policy of complete candour. “I will put all my cards
