their hands were resting on their Mauser pistols and knew that it was no use turning back. They would shoot me in the back, and even if they missed there were probably more of them on the other side of the train. Had Zaleshoff got through, or had they caught him too? I felt the sweat start out from the pores of the skin.
The porter grasped the suitcase and I swung myself down to the platform. Then the unbelievable happened. I looked at the faces of the militiamen. They were not looking at me but past me up into the train. For a moment I stopped, hardly able to believe my eyes. Then:
“Where to, Signore?” said the porter.
I was gaping. I pulled myself together. “To the cloakroom,” I muttered.
My legs trembling, I followed him along the platform. There were two militiamen posted at every exit from the coaches. As the last of the alighting passengers left the third-class coaches at the front, I saw two of them, accompanied by an officer, board the train. Heads were being thrust out of the windows. The other passengers had realised that something out of the ordinary was happening.
Ahead of me I saw Zaleshoff, preceded by his porter, disappear through the door leading to the street. There were three more militiamen standing by it. I walked on. I was acutely conscious of my boots. They seemed to be making as much noise as a regiment on the march. They made a clumping, hollow sound as they touched the asphalt. I noticed for the first time that one of them squeaked. To take my mind off them I tried to decide what I should do if the owner of the suitcase, which the porter was carrying, were to identify it from a window of the train. It was a large, expensive-looking thing and easy to recognise. Should I run or attempt to brazen it out? But no! If I did that they would notice my accent. They might want to see my passport, they…
But I was approaching the exit. There were only a few yards to go now. I could see the faces of the militiamen turned towards me. I was sure that one was looking at my boots. Their faces came towards me and, in my panic, I could not make up my mind whether I was approaching them or whether they were coming towards me to seize me. My feet felt ungainly and awkward, as if I were wearing snowshoes. Instinctively I altered my direction slightly to bring the porter ahead of me between myself and them. He passed them. I felt the calves of my legs go taut as I walked. The militiamen stared at me. I was almost level with them. I could see the details of their uniforms, the texture of the black cloth, the shape of the black leather revolver holster, the shiny brass stud that secured it. I waited for a black arm to go up blocking my path. I prepared to play the farce out to the end. To be indignant. Instinctively, my face screwed up into an indignant scowl. A moment later I was past them.
For a moment I could scarcely believe my good fortune. I walked on, expecting at any moment to feel hands grasping my arms, pulling me back. But no hands came. Then I was standing in a dream by the cloakroom counter and the porter was standing there waiting for a tip. I plunged my hand into my pocket and pulled out the first coin my fingers touched. I saw the porter stare at it as I dropped it into his hand and realised, too late, that I had made a mistake. I had given him ten lire. He would remember me. I waved away his thanks irritably and turned to go. The cloakroom attendant called me back. I had forgotten my counterfoil. I took it and, sweating profusely, clumped towards the station yard.
Zaleshoff was waiting for me a little way away. I told him what I had done. He shrugged.
“It can’t be helped. Have you got your cloakroom check? Well, tear it up and throw it away. I picked suitcases with name and address tags on them. The owners’ll get them back eventually. Now let’s go and have some breakfast. The shops won’t be open for an hour or so yet.”
By the time we had established ourselves in a caffe some distance from the station, reaction had set in. I was trembling from head to foot. The last thing I wanted was food. Zaleshoff grinned sympathetically.
“You’ll feel better when you’ve had some coffee. It wasn’t so bad as all that. Don’t forget that they were looking for a couple of guys in drivers’ uniforms.”
“Maybe. But I’ve got the jitters.”
“Well, we’ve got plenty of time. We can take it easy for a bit. As soon as the shops are open, we’ll get some shoes, two new hats, two shirts and a couple of small suitcases. I’ll get you a pair of glasses, too. They’re not much good as a disguise, but they’ll give you confidence. We can change in a lavatory somewhere and put this stuff we’re wearing now into the suitcases. Then we’ll buy tickets, like ordinary respectable folks, for Vicenza. We ought to get to Udine this afternoon.”
“If we don’t get caught here.” I noticed that his face was looking normal again. “What did you do to your face?”
“Tore my handkerchief into strips and made me some little wads like the things dentists put in your mouth. They were poked inside my cheeks. They nearly made me throw up as I walked down the platform. I’ve shaved my eyebrows a bit, too.” He got up. “I’ll be back in a minute, I’m going to get a paper.”
By the time he returned I had drunk some coffee and was feeling cooler, both mentally and physically. He was looking solemn.
“What’s the matter?”
He gave me the paper. As the blue-eyed porter had said, Zaleshoff’s description had been added to mine. We were still believed to be in the vicinity of Treviglio. But the paper had been printed some hours before.
“I don’t see,” I said, “that this makes it any worse.”
“No, it doesn’t make it any worse. But it’s what they haven’t printed that I’m worrying about.”
“Such as what?”
But he did not answer. “There’s something inside that may interest you,” he said: “page three, column two, near the top.”
I found it. It was a short paragraph under the caption:
“THE P OLICE S USPECT SUICIDE ”
It went on:
MILAN,
Friday.
A woman was found late to-night behind a house in the Corso di Porta Nuova. She was seriously injured, and is believed to have fallen from a fourth-storey window. She died on the way to the hospital. A servant, Ricciardo Fiabini, identified the dead woman as signora Vagas, wife of Maggiore Generale J. L. Vagas of Belgrade, who is well-known in Milan musical circles. The General is at present abroad.
I looked up. “Why did she do it?”
He shrugged. “She was crazy; and when Vagas got away… but you can’t begin to explain how the mind of a dame like that works.” He stopped and looked at me quizzically. “What are you thinking about? Want to send a wreath?”
I shook my head.
“No,” I said slowly; “I was wondering if Ricciardo would attend the funeral.”
As soon as the shops were open, we made our purchases. Soon after nine we boarded a slow “omnibus” train to Vicenza. We arrived there at about half-past ten. From Vicenza we doubled on our tracks by bus to Tavernelle, where we caught a train to Treviso. We repeated the doubling-back process at Castelfranco and later at Casarsa. We reached Udine at half-past nine that evening.
It was a worrying day. Most of the stations were heavily guarded and we travelled in constant fear of being asked to show our papers. From time to time we dozed fitfully. The early drizzle cleared away during the morning and it became sunny and very warm. As we drew out of a station our heads would nod forward and for a minute or two we would sleep, only to wake up with a nerve-racking jerk if the train slowed for a signal or crossed points. My eyes ached and smarted with fatigue. This misery was aggravated by the pair of thick pebble glasses which Zaleshoff had bought for me at a street market stall, and which rendered me practically blind when I was forced to look through instead of over them. To add to my discomfort, I developed a bilious attack. Zaleshoff ate a solitary luncheon out of a paper bag. The only redeeming feature of the journey was that for most of the time we travelled with compartments to ourselves.
At Udine we left our cases in the cloakroom.
“Do you feel like something to eat yet?” said Zaleshoff as we walked warily out of the station.
“I might tackle an omelette.”
“Then we’ll find somewhere good. We may as well take our time about it, too. We’ve got time to kill.”
I groaned. “Isn’t there some small shady hotel where we could spend the night without being asked for our passports. I know we’ve had a nap or two to-day, but it’s a bed I want. My back feels as if it’s got a hole in it.”
“So does mine. But you’ll find that the shadier the hotel the more fuss they’ll make about passports. Still, if
