I cleared the snow off the top of the rucksack and got out the rum. We took a stiff peg each. I could feel it, warm and sickly, trickling down to my stomach.
“What do we do about it?” I said as I replaced the bottle.
“We can’t be so far away from the path. If we get down the side of the ridge here, maybe we can find some place among the rocks where we can shelter until it gets light.”
“You mean spend the night out in this?”
“We’ve got the rum.”
“All right. Anything’s better than standing here.”
We started to scramble down the side of the hill. It was steeper than the side by which we had come up and we slithered down most of the way. At last we came to rest on a shelf of rock.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” muttered Zaleshoff; “we shall end up on the floor of the valley. We’ll try going forward.”
We edged our way along the shelf. Soon it sloped sharply upwards and we were climbing back towards the top of the ridge.
The snow was coming down as heavily as ever. We were both soaking wet and numb with cold. We had stopped to get our breath back and take stock of our position when we saw the light ahead of and above us.
The side of the ridge was scooped out in a series of hollows like huge teeth marks. We were at the edge of one of these hollows. The shelf turned away sharply to the left and the light could only be coming from somewhere farther along the top of the ridge as it curved southward.
The light seemed to flicker.
“What is it?” I said.
“It might be someone with a lantern. But it’s a bit too steady for that. We can’t be more than a kilometre from Fusine. It may be a house. Come on, we’ll see.”
“What’s the use?”
“If there’s a house it means we must be near the path that guy was talking about. It starts from Fusine. Let’s go.”
We started to climb again. The way was steep and dangerous. With each difficult step I could feel my strength going. The cold and the altitude were slowly overcoming me. My heart was pounding furiously. But I floundered on up after Zaleshoff. I was afraid of being left behind.
The light had disappeared. A feeling of lassitude began to steal over me. Now it did not matter if I was left behind. My head was swimming. I heard myself calling out to him to stop. Then suddenly I felt my feet sink through the snow on to a level surface. The light reappeared and it was nearer. I could see the shape of a window.
Zaleshoff’s hand was on my shoulder. I heard him telling me to stay where I was. Then I saw him disappear towards a blackness beyond the snow. I stood still. Behind the thudding of the blood in my head I could hear the quiet, incessant rustle of the snow.
Suddenly there was a shout from the direction in which he had gone. The next moment I heard him yelling out something in a language I did not understand. Involuntarily I stumbled forward up the slope. Then, out of the white darkness ahead loomed two figures. Hands gripped my arms. I heard Zaleshoff shouting again; and this time he was using English.
“It’s O.K. Marlow. Take it easy. Don’t resist. We’re over.”
Resist! I was too exhausted even to laugh at the idea.
17
The remainder of that night we spent by the brazier in the concrete Yugo-Slav advance frontier post into which we had succeeded in blundering. As soon as dawn broke we were removed to a guard post a kilometre away.
The Yugo-Slav officials were suspicious but polite. There was an air of informality about the proceedings that I had not expected. The men who had arrested us stood about spitting and smoking while we were questioned. It was not until later that I learned that it was only the fact that we were not Italians that interested them. Italian refugees were still, apparently, fairly common.
Zaleshoff produced his passport and was released within the hour. I was allowed to telephone the Vice- Consul at Zagreb. It took a long time to get the call through, and they gave us coffee while we waited in front of the guardroom stove; but by eleven o’clock matters had been satisfactorily arranged and, on the understanding that we reported to the police immediately on our arrival there, we were permitted to proceed to Zagreb. That night, for the first time in five days, I slept in a bed.
The following morning, clad in a brand new Yugo-Slav suit and armed with an identity paper from the Consul, I travelled with Zaleshoff to Belgrade. The luxury of being able to face a ticket collector without flinching was delicious. I was extraordinarily excited and pleased with myself. I had telephoned to Claire, explained that I had had to leave Italy hurriedly (I did not say just how hurriedly) to escape a charge of bribery over a Spartacus contract, and promised to be home within the week. She had refrained manfully from asking for details. I had told Zaleshoff of the fact with some pride.
He had grinned. “If I were you, Marlow, I’d get busy as soon as I got to London. If you don’t look sharp and marry her, some other guy will.”
“That’s precisely what I’d been thinking.”
I had also telephoned Wolverhampton. Mr. Fitch had not been so accommodating in the matter of details. News of the warrant for my arrest had reached Spartacus via the British authorities. Bombarded with quesions, I had said that I had been staying with friends waiting for the thing to blow over, that I was now safe and sound, and that I would get to Wolverhampton as soon as possible. At that point the operator had intervened with the news that I had been talking for six minutes. I had suggested quickly that Umberto be empowered to carry on temporarily in Milan and hung up. I should, I reflected, have two months’ salary to come from Spartacus.
But one thing that Fitch had said troubled me. He had raised the question of the Italian Government starting extradition proceedings. I mentioned it to Zaleshoff.
He laughed. “Extradition? Not a chance. Even if they knew you were here they wouldn’t do anything about it. For one thing they’d know that it was too late to prevent your reaching Vagas. For another, they’d have to answer too many questions themselves to make it worth their while. What about that passport photograph they put in the paper? Supposing the British authorities wanted to know how they got it. No, I guess the only one they’ll take it out of is Bellinetti. I wouldn’t be in that bird’s shoes for a good deal.”
He had evidently been in touch with Tamara, for she was waiting for us at the Belgrade station. They kissed each other’s hands. It was rather touching. She smiled at me.
“You’re looking well, Mr. Marlow.”
“He’s done a lot of walking,” remarked Zaleshoff; “there’s nothing like walking for getting you fit.” He grasped her arm. “Where’s Vagas? Have you found him yet?”
“Yes. His house is shut up, but I put Fedor on to watch it. He went there yesterday and came out forty minutes later with a suitcase. Fedor followed him to the Hotel Amerika. He’s got a suite there on the second floor. Number two hundred and ten.”
“Good.” I saw his eyes flicker towards me.
“Fedor?” I said. “That sounds like a good old American name.” But he ignored the remark.
“Where are we staying?”
“I’ve taken rooms at the Acacia for us and one for Mr. Marlow at the Amerika-on the second floor.”
“Let’s go to the Acacia first.”
At the Hotel Acacia we talked for half an hour. Or, rather, Zaleshoff talked and I nodded. Tamara had left us to ourselves, but presently she appeared with a large and expensive-looking suitcase containing a pair of pyjamas, a tooth brush and toilet necessities, and a number of secondhand books to add weight to it. Towards six o’clock I put the case into a taxi and was driven to the Hotel Amerika.
