cold and my body, still warm from sleep, shivered. One of the men holding Zaleshoff said something and the other laughed. Then we walked on in silence.
The dark building turned out to be an engine shed. About fifty yards beyond it a gang of men with a travelling crane working below the floodlights was loading motor-car chassis on to long two-bogie trucks. We turned away to the left along a narrow concrete path. The path curved round a signal cabin. Then we crossed another track and approached a small building with a large window in one side through which I could see a naked electric lamp suspended above a sort of counter. The foreman pushed the door open and we were led inside.
It was really little more than a hut. A youth was seated on a high stool before the counter, which I now saw was the recording part of the weighbridge on the adjacent track; and as we came in he slipped off his stool and stood goggling at us.
I could see the foreman’s face now. He was a dark, grey-faced man with a little spiky moustache. He looked intelligent and bad-tempered. He frowned at the youth.
“Have you finished checking the cement loadings?”
“Yes, Signore.”
“Then you can go and work at your own table. This is no business of yours.”
“Yes, Signore.” The youth gave us a frightened look and went.
“Now then!” The foreman relaxed his grip on my arm and motioned to the men holding Zaleshoff to release him. Then he pointed to the opposite wall of the office. “Stand over there, both of you.”
We obeyed. His lips tightened. He surveyed us grimly.
“Who are you?” he snapped suddenly; and then, without giving us a chance to reply to this: “What were you doing in that truck? Don’t you know that it is forbidden to ride on goods trains? You are cheating the State. You will be put in prison.”
There did not seem anything to be said to this. Obviously, the moment the police saw me the game would be up. It was, I thought, remarkable that I had not already been identified with the picture in the paper. Perhaps the hat accounted for it. But it was only a matter of time. I wished they would hurry up. Perhaps it would be best if I told them myself.
“Well,” snapped the foreman, “what have you got to say for yourselves?”
Then, to my surprise, Zaleshoff stepped forward a little.
“We were doing no harm, Signore,” he whined, “we were trying to get to Padova. We had heard that there was work there and we had no money. Do not give us up to the police, Signore.”
It was abject; but Zaleshoff, with his filthy face and heavy growth of beard, was a villainous-looking object and anything but pitiable. I was not surprised when the foreman scowled.
“Enough. I know my duty. Where do you come from?”
“Torino, Signore. We were only trying to get work.”
“Show me your identity card.”
Zaleshoff hesitated. Then: “It is lost, Signore,” he said quickly; “I had it, but it was stolen from me. It…”
It was a hopeless exhibition of shiftiness. The foreman cut him short with a gesture and turned to me.
“Show me your identity card.”
“I have none, Signore, I…”
He laughed angrily. “Do you also come from Torino?”
I thought quickly. Now was the time to give myself up. Zaleshoff must have known what was passing through my mind for he coughed warningly. I hesitated.
“Answer!” snapped the foreman.
“No, Signore. From Palermo.”
My Italian was not nearly as good as Zaleshoff’s and I thought that I had better give an answer that would explain away my accent.
“I see.” His lips tightened. “One from Torino and one from Palermo. Both without identity cards. This is clearly a matter for the police.”
“But…” whined Zaleshoff.
“Silence!” The workmen had been watching the scene with blank faces. Now he turned to two of them. “You two stay here and see that they don’t try to escape while I consult with the yard manager and the police.” He turned to the third man. “Go back and see if they have done any damage inside the truck. If it is all in order refasten the tarpaulin properly. Those trucks will go on to Verona to-day.”
A moment later the door closed and we were left with our two gaolers.
For a moment or two we exchanged stares.
They were brawny fellows with red, grease-smeared faces. They were wearing filthy light-blue overalls and berets. One of them was about my own age; the other looked about ten years older. He carried a long wheel- tapper’s hammer. The younger man was, judging by the state of his hands, a greaser. They both looked very determined. It seemed obvious to me that if we tried any rough stuff we should accomplish nothing and probably get badly knocked about.
I glanced at Zaleshoff and caught his eye. His face was quite impassive, but he raised his eyebrows and shrugged slightly. I took it that he had resigned himself to the inevitable.
But I was wrong.
Four men standing in silence in a small room staring solemnly at one another produces after a while an atmosphere of extreme nervous tension. The desire to break the silence or establish some sort of communication with the other three becomes overpowering. The man with the hammer was the first to give way. His face puckered suddenly into a sheepish grin.
Zaleshoff promptly grinned back at him.
“Do you mind if we sit down, comrades?” he said.
The grin faded from the workman’s face as suddenly as it appeared. I saw him cast a quick apprehensive glance at his companion. The younger man was frowning. I realised that it was the word “comrades” that had been the trouble. It was, I thought, very tactless of Zaleshoff.
The wheel-tapper nodded slowly. “Yes, you can sit down,” he said.
There were some packing-cases in one corner of the office.
We moved over and sat on them. Zaleshoff began to hum softly.
I stared wretchedly at the bare wood floor. So this was the end of our plan for getting out of the country! We might, I reflected bitterly, have saved ourselves those twenty-four hours of walking. I had, I told myself, always known that it was hopeless, that Zaleshoff had only been postponing the evil moment; yet, now that it had come, I was conscious of being disappointed. It must, I decided, have been that I had expected something different. I had expected to be recognised. In my mind’s eye I rehearsed the scene as it should have been played. I imagined the sudden gleam that should have lighted my captor’s eyes when he realised that he had earned himself ten thousand lire. Then there would be the formalities at the police station and the armed guard back to Milan. I pictured the pained courtesy of the young man at the Consulate. “Naturally, Mr. Marlow (or would he omit the Mister?), we shall do all we can, but…” Or perhaps it would not get as far as that. “Shot while escaping”-that had been the phrase Zaleshoff had used. “They make you kneel down. Then they put a bullet through the back of your neck.” That was horrible. You knelt down as if you were going to pray. There was something helpless and pitiful about a man kneeling. I yawned. I kept yawning. It was absurd. I was not tired, I was not bored-my God, no! I was scared, scared stiff, in the bluest of funks, and I was yawning. It was grotesque. I shivered.
Zaleshoff was still humming. It was a march of some sort. It went on and on, a steady, plodding rhythm. I found myself involuntarily beating time with my foot.
“Stop that!”
It was the wheel-tapper who had spoken. It was said angrily, in irritation; but in his eyes there was a watchful, worried look that puzzled me. I had a sudden feeling that there was something going on that I did not understand. The greaser was watching Zaleshoff closely. Outside an engine clanked slowly past. Then it happened.
Zaleshoff pulled the brandy bottle out of his pocket.
“Can we have a drink, comrades?” he said.
The greaser made a motion forward as if to stop him; but the older man nodded.
“He’s up to something,” exclaimed the greaser suddenly. He turned on his companion accusingly. “You dirty
