trees to a spot sheltered by some bushes about twenty-five yards from the road. I sat down thankfully on the ground and prepared to wait.
Zaleshoff was gone nearly two hours. The sun had risen and was glancing through the trees, but it was still cold. Soon I gave up sitting on the ground in favour of a sort of sentry-go pacing between two trees. Fifty times I looked at my watch and fifty times I found that the hands seemed not to have moved. Once, a man passed along the road whistling. My heart was in my mouth until he had passed. I resumed my pacing. After a bit I drank some more of the cognac. My stomach was empty and the spirit made me feel sick. I began to wonder if Zaleshoff had perhaps been arrested until I remembered that there was no reason why he should be. Then I made up my mind that he had regretted his offer to get me out of the country and made for the nearest railway station and a train back to Milan. That, too, was absurd. He was probably, I decided, having a good breakfast of hot, crisp rolls with a great deal of ice-cold butter and scalding coffee. I suddenly became ravenously hungry. I could almost smell the hot yeastiness of those rolls. The swine! The least he could have done would have been to get me a bite to eat. Then I began to think of Claire. I ought somehow to let her know what was happening. Pelcher, too. Perhaps I could send them telegrams. No, that would be awkward. The Italian authorities might trace the telegrams back to the sending office and thus find out where we were. I must be careful, discreet. I could send them a letter each. That would be all right. Zaleshoff could not object to that. Better perhaps, though, not to tell him. But I had not got any note-paper or envelopes. I should have to tell him. As I paced up and down my mind wandered on. But of all the many reasons I had to feel sorry for myself, the one that made the others seem trifling was the lack of those hot rolls. It was, no doubt, just as well that it was so.
I was disturbed in these reflections by the snapping of a twig. I started violently. Then Zaleshoff hailed me softly. I pushed my way through the screen of bushes that hid me and found him struggling with a number of paper parcels.
“Oh there you are!” he said.
“You made me jump. Where have you been all this time?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. Help me with this stuff.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
He handed me two heavy parcels and we pushed our way through to the clearing behind the bushes. There he sat down with a sigh of relief. I saw that his face was drawn and tired. He looked up at me and smiled wearily.
“First,” he said, “I’ve got you some breakfast.”
From his overcoat pocket he drew a large bag of buttered rolls. As I took the parcel from him I felt that they were still warm from the bakery. I tore the bag open and started to eat ravenously. Hot rolls! You couldn’t help liking Zaleshoff!
From his other pocket he got out a bottle of milk. I extended the bag to him. He shook his head.
“No, thanks. I ate while I was waiting for the shops to open. Thank goodness, we’re in the country. They opened early. I’d have brought you some coffee, but it would have been cold by the time I’d got it here.”
“What’s the name of the place?” I said with my mouth full.
“Reminini. It’s small and a good half-hour’s walk from here. I…” He broke off suddenly. “Would you like to see what I’ve got in the other parcels?”
I nodded, and he opened the two heavy parcels and displayed the contents. I goggled at them.
“Boots?”
“Yes, a pair for each of us and some thick woollen socks. I noticed you had a bit of a limp this morning and when we stopped along the road I measured your foot against mine. We take the same size.”
I regarded the huge, hob-nailed soles and heavy uppers with some misgiving. He interpreted my look correctly.
“We’ve got a whole lot of walking to do and they’ll be less tiring than blisters.”
“I suppose so. What’s in the other parcel?”
“A muffler for one thing. You need one. And a hat.”
“But I’ve got a hat.”
“Not like this one. Have a look.”
I had a look and what I saw did not please me. It was a very cheap Italian soft hat, black, with a high crown and flat brim.
“What on earth is this for?”
He grinned. “To make you look less conspicuous. That hat of yours is very natty but it shrieks English to high Heaven. There’s nothing like a new hat for making you look different.”
I tried on the hat. To my surprise it fitted me.
He nodded. “I had a look at your size in hats last night.”
I felt it gingerly. “I can’t help feeling,” I said crossly, “that I shall look a damn sight more conspicuous in a low comedy affair like this than in my own hat.”
“That’s only because you’re not used to it. Here, give it to me.”
I gave it to him with pleasure. The next moment he was wringing it between his hands like a dish-cloth. He then proceeded to clean his shoes with it. Having done that he rubbed it vigorously on the ground until it was filthy. Then he shook the leaves off, punched it into shape again, dinted the top and handed it back to me.
“That’s a bit more like it should be. No, don’t dust it any more. Stick it on and give me your own.”
I obeyed him. He surveyed me critically.
“Yes, much better. It’s a good thing you’re dark. That unshaven chin goes swell with the hat.”
I lit a cigarette and yawned. The food had made me sleepy. My eyelids felt very heavy.
“Well,” I said, “I feel like a sleep. What about it? Shall we stay here or try to find somewhere else?”
He did not answer immediately and I looked up from my cigarette. He was looking at me steadily.
“There’ll be no sleep for us to-day,” he said slowly. “We’ve got to get on.”
“But…”
“I didn’t tell you before because I thought I’d let you eat your breakfast in peace, but we’re in a pretty tough spot here.”
My heart sank. “What do you mean?”
“There are patrols out on all the roads.”
“How do you know?”
“I ran slap into one just outside the village. Police and a couple of Blackshirt militiamen. We’re still in the Treviglio area, you see. I had to show my passport and permit, and they were suspicious. I made up a story on the spur of the moment about having started out early from Treviglio to get to a business appointment in Venice and having the car break down. It wasn’t very good, but it was the best thing I could think of to explain what I was doing along this road at this time and in these clothes. They let me by but they took a note of my name and the number of my passport. They also told me where the nearest garage was. I couldn’t very well go back along the road with all those parcels-that would have wanted a bit of explaining-so I had to make a detour through the fields. If they remember me and it occurs to them to check up with the garage man they’ll be beating the bushes before long. And there’s another thing.” He pulled a folded newspaper out of his inside pocket. “Take a look at this. It’s this morning’s.”
I took the paper and scanned the front page. It was an early edition of a Milan sheet. It did not take me long to see what he wanted me to see. There, in the middle of the page were two squared-up half-tones, each about three inches deep. Both were pictures of me.
Above them were the words, “A TTENTI, L. 10,000,” in heavy black capitals. Below, also in bold type, was the message, slightly altered, that had been given over the radio the previous night. I examined the pictures carefully. One had obviously been taken from the prints I had supplied for my permit. It had been a “flat” photograph with hard, sharp lighting. The result was a reproduction that, in spite of the poor paper, was almost as clear as the original. It was easily recognisable as a picture of me. The other was less clear but it interested me very much for it had obviously been made from a photoprint of the photograph on my “lost” passport. I could see faintly where the black impressions of the British Foreign Office stamps had been painted out. I looked up.
“Well,” said Zaleshoff; “now you know why I didn’t want the ticket collector to see your face yesterday. The other papers have got those pictures too.”
