memories of the envelope steaming episode, I asked him to address his reply care of Claire.
I paid my weekly ceremonial visits to the Consulate for news of my passport and to the Amministrazione to have my permit date-stamped. The officials at the Consulate were, as always, charming and sympathetic. The policeman on the door at the Amministrazione greeted me by name. We exchanged opinions on the subject of the weather. The evenings I spent at the cinema or with Zaleshoff and Tamara. When it was warm, which it was on most days now, we walked in the new Park. That Saturday I watched with Zaleshoff a highly acrimonious football match between a Milan team and a team from Verona. The latter won, and the referee was manhandled and seriously injured by the crowd. Three days later I went to Rome.
The summons from Rome I received late on the Tuesday afternoon. There had been a fire at the works of one of our customers just outside the city. The fire had spread from the stores to a machine shop containing a battery of S2 machines. The fire had been put out, but five of the machines had been damaged. The machines had been busy on a Government contract with a penalty clause not covered by insurance. I was wanted immediately to advise as to the speed with which the necessary spare parts could be obtained from England and the possibility of increasing the output of the undamaged machines and to place a valuation on the damage done.
Bellinetti was, as usual, out of the office. I told Umberto where I was going, and went back to the Parigi. There, I packed a suitcase with the things I might require for a night in a hotel, snatched an early dinner and caught a night train to Rome.
I spent the following day amidst the ruins of the burnt-out shop. The damage was more extensive than I had anticipated, and the unhappy signatories of the contract with the penalty clause had lost their heads. Eventually, I sent a long telegram to Fitch, and was able to get one back from him with reassuring news concerning the delivery of the spare parts. The works manager kissed me on both cheeks. It was, however, very late when eventually I got away, and I was dog-tired. I decided to spend the night in Rome and travel back to Milan the following day.
It was towards half-past six the following evening when my train drew into the Centrale at Milan. It had been full for most of the way. Now it began to empty. The corridor was jammed with luggage and people. I was standing outside my compartment waiting impatiently for the way to clear when I saw Zaleshoff.
The platform was crowded with people meeting the train. He was standing on the outskirts of the crowd, scanning the alighting passengers anxiously. I leaned out of the window and waved. Then he saw me.
He made no effort to wave back. I saw him glance quickly up and down the platform and then edge his way through the crowd towards the window through which I was leaning. A second or two later he was standing below me. I was about to ask him who he had been waiting to meet when he looked up. Something in his face alarmed me.
“What’s the matter?”
“Get back into your compartment and stay there.”
There was extraordinary urgency in his voice. His eyes had dropped. He was looking down the platform.
“What the…?”
“Do as I tell you.”
“But this train goes on to Venice.”
“That doesn’t matter a damn. Get back inside and keep out of sight. Open your suitcase and be looking inside it. I’m coming aboard in a minute. I’ll join you when we’ve left the station.”
He had not raised his voice, but his tone was so vehement that I obeyed him. Utterly bewildered, I returned to the compartment and opened my suitcase. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him, a moment or two later, plant his back against the glass door of the compartment. He remained there motionless until the train began to move. Then he took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He did not turn round until the train had left the station. Then he slid the door open, stepped inside the compartment, shut the door behind him and pulled the blinds down.
Then he turned to me. He grinned.
“I’ve met every train from Rome to-day,” he said. “I think they were beginning to take an interest in me.”
“What on earth is this all about?” I demanded.
“Sit down and I’ll tell you.”
“What’s happened?”
He took out his cigarettes and sat down facing me.
“The fat’s in the fire,” he announced calmly.
“What does that mean?” I was worried and beginning to get irritated.
“Yesterday afternoon, Vagas skipped it by air to Belgrade. He could only have got away by the skin of his teeth because your friend Commendatore Bernabo was arrested at seven o’clock. They were waiting for him when he got home. And there’s a warrant out for your arrest. About eight o’clock last night they raided your offices. It was the Ovra all right, not the regular police. They went through the place with a fine comb. They’ve been at it all day to-day. Bellinetti’s been enjoying himself no end, I guess. The only trouble was that they didn’t know where you were. But they’re watching all three stations. You wouldn’t have got out of the Centrale without being arrested.”
“But what’s it all about?”
“The actual charge is one of bribing Government officials. That means Bernabo, of course. But the real trouble is that they’ve found out about your reports to Vagas.”
I swallowed hard. I felt suddenly very, very frightened. “But who
…?” I began.
He laughed shortly and not pleasantly.
“That’s easy. The one person we didn’t reckon on taking a hand-your girl friend, Madame Vagas.”
13
The train gathered speed. Zaleshoff went on talking. I listened to him in stunned silence.
“This is the way I see it,” he said: “Madame Vagas had it in for her ever-loving husband. That note she slipped you the night you went to the Opera proves that. You remember what she said? ‘He killed Ferning.’ It was obvious that she knew a lot. I’ve an idea she knew more than Vagas knew. And there’s only one way she could have found out about Ferning’s being bumped off. My guess is that the Ovra, knowing that she fancied Vagas about as much as a dose of poison, got at her and persuaded her to keep tabs on him. She agreed, with reservations. She didn’t tell them, then, that he was actually a German agent. She must be a bit crazy. You could see the way her mind worked in that note. She knew that Vagas hadn’t actually killed Ferning with his own hands. But she saw that he was, in a sort of way, morally responsible. Her hatred twisted that moral responsibility into a direct one. She must,” he added reflectively, “have hated him plenty.”
In my mind’s eye I saw the baroque hangings of that house in the Corso di Porta Nuova, the obscene wall paintings, Ricciardo, pale and dainty in his blood-red satin knee breeches, gliding across the hall. There had been a smell of incense in the air. I remembered that sudden deadly passage of hatred between the husband and the wife. “Any talk of death depresses her.” For a moment I thought that I understood Madame Vagas, saw through and round her mind, and found her horribly sane; then the moment passed. I looked up at Zaleshoff.
“Vagas got away, you said?”
“Yes, he got away. I don’t even know if they’ve issued a warrant for him. Maybe not. What happened probably was that his wife, having spilled all the beans to the Ovra, couldn’t resist telling him that she had done so. When he knew that they knew he was a German agent, he knew that it was time he went. His pensioners have saved his bacon before, but he couldn’t rely on their being able to repeat the process. You can’t buy your way through all the time. Sooner or later you come up against folks who haven’t had their cut. Then you’re done. Vagas took it on the lam like any other sensible guy in his position would have done. He was darn lucky to have the chance, and he knew it.”
“What did you mean by saying that they’d found out about my reports? Madame Vagas may have known
