by Eric Ambler
Yet, for me, there is a Wednesday which, in its sooty blackness, is easily distinguishable from the grey. It is the day following that upon which I met General Vagas.
It began with a visit to the Amministrazione della Polizia.
I presented myself, passport in hand, shortly after nine o’clock. After surrendering the passport to a policeman wearing a Monagesque uniform and a huge sword, I was ushered into a waiting-room. Except for a row of greasy wooden armchairs and an ink-stained table it was bare of furniture. From one wall glowered a large fly-blown photograph of Mussolini. Facing it on the opposite wall was a companion representation of King Victor Emmanuel. The frames of both portraits were draped, rather carelessly, with Italian flags. When I arrived, one of the chairs was occupied by an old woman in mourning, eating a cold compress of spaghetti out of an American-cloth bag. After about ten minutes she was beckoned out by the policeman and I was left alone to study the Duce’s apoplectic glare.
I waited for an hour and a quarter. Shortly after the forty-five minutes mark I went to the door and complained to the policeman. I had, I protested, work to do. His only response was a shrug and a vague assurance that my case was receiving attention. I retired once more to the waiting-room. By the time he appeared at the door and beckoned to me, my temper was already a trifle frayed. What followed did nothing to improve it.
I was shown into a room occupied by a man in a dark-green uniform. He was lolling back in his swivel chair flipping over the pages of an illustrated magazine. One gleaming, booted leg was cocked over an arm of the chair which he had swung round, so that all I could see of him was the back of his neck. Beyond affecting a slightly more intense preoccupation with the magazine, he took no notice of my entrance. With rising irritation, I studied the neck.
It was plump and brown and bulged over the narrow line of white stiff collar above the uniform collar. I took an immediate dislike to the neck and to its owner. He flipped over the last of the pages, dropped the magazine on his desk and swung round to face me. My dislike was promptly confirmed. His face was small, smooth, round and spiteful. He scowled at me.
“Yes? What do you want?”
“My passport.”
“And why should I have your passport? Get out!”
Deciding that the fool of a policeman had probably shown me into the wrong room, I turned to go.
“Wait.”
I stopped.
“What is your name?”
“Marlow.”
“English?”
“Yes.”
“Ah!” He turned to his table, picked up my passport from under the magazine and looked at the name on it. “Ah, yes! Signor Marlow, the Englishman.” He smiled unpleasantly.
“Precisely, Signore,” I burst out angrily. “And I should like to know why I have been kept waiting for an hour and a quarter.” I nodded towards the magazine. “I, at any rate, have something to do with my time.”
It was perhaps unwise of me, but I could not help it. The prospect of carrying out my intention of putting in a good day’s work at the office was receding rapidly. I was thoroughly angry. Nevertheless, as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew that I had blundered.
His lip curled viciously.
“Be more respectful in your manner, please,” he snapped; “and be so good as to address me as signor Capitano.”
I glared at him in silence.
“ Allora.” He turned to the passport and drew a sheet of paper towards him. “You will answer the questions I put to you.”
“Very well.” I carefully omitted the “ signor Capitano.”
With great deliberation he put his pen down, fitted a cigarette into a holder and produced a jewelled lighter. His obvious intention was to waste time. I could have hit him.
“Now,” he went on at last, “we will begin. Where were you born?”
“You will find the place and date in my passport.”
“I did not ask you what is in the passport, you fool, I asked you where you were born.”
“London.”
“The date?”
I gave him the date. The questions went on. What nationality was my father? British. My mother? British. My grandfathers? British. My grandmothers? British. Was I married? No. Had I any brothers or sisters? A brother. Was he married? Yes. What was the nationality of his wife? British. Had I ever been in Italy before? No. Where had I learned Italian? From a friend in London. What was the friend’s name? Carmelo. Where was he now? I did not know. Had I known Signor Ferning? No. Had I ever had any other profession but that of engineer? No. Why had I come to Italy? To act as my employer’s representative. How long did I hope to stay? Indefinitely. Was I a member of any political party? No. Was I a Socialist? No. Was I a Marxist? No.
By now I had my temper well under control. He sat back and surveyed me sullenly. I waited. Then he stood up. I was interested to see that he wore corsets.
“Permission will be given for you to remain in Italy providing that you report here every week to have your permit stamped. You have brought the regulation photographs? Very well. Report here to-morrow for your permit. You may go.”
“Thank you. My passport, please.”
He scowled. “Your passport will be retained until to-morrow for official purposes.”
“But-”
“There is no argument. You are in Italy now and Italian regulations must be obeyed. And”-he put one hand on his hip in the authentic Mussolini pose and tapped me threateningly on the chest-“I should advise you to be careful about the acquaintances you make.”
“I am always careful about my acquaintances.”
“Very likely. But there are some persons with whom it is unhealthy to associate.”
I stared hard at him. “I can quite believe you,” I said deliberately.
His lip curled again. “A little Fascist discipline would do you good, signor Marlow,” he said slowly. “Let me advise you once more to be discreet.” He turned his back on me and sat down.
I went, seething. On the way to the Via San Giulio I called at the British Consulate. I was interviewed by a very polite young man in a Savile Row suit. He listened to my tale of woe in silence. Then:
“Well, of course, Mr. Marlow, it is very unusual of them to behave like that, and I’ve never heard of them retaining a British passport like that. But you were probably just unlucky. And they are inclined to be a little touchy at the moment. I’ll have a word with the Consul about it. But I shouldn’t worry. If you don’t get your passport back, let us know. By the way, what did you say your business was?”
“My company is supplying machinery to the Government.”
“What sort of machinery, Mr. Marlow?”
“For making munitions.”
“Oh quite. Well, I expect that that might have something to do with it. Let me see, Mr. Ferning was your predecessor, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know him?”
“No. I have only just left England.”
“Ah, just so. Charming fellow, of course. Well, good morning, Mr. Marlow. Let us know if you have any trouble.”
I went on my way. That was the third time in twenty-four hours that I had been asked whether or not I had known Ferning. Vagas, the signor Capitano, and now the Consulate. It was, I supposed, only to be expected. A man who dies in a street accident in a foreign city is not immediately forgotten by all his associates there.
Bellinetti greeted me cordially and informed me with pride that he had done most of the work for the day.
“The Signore,” he added, “need never trouble to attend the office until after luncheon. I, Bellinetti, will see that all goes well.” He smacked his lips and flashed a smile in the direction of Serafina, who looked up from the book she was reading to nod graciously.
I scowled at them and strode into my office. Bellinetti followed me.
“There is something wrong, Signore?”
Impatiently, I told him how I had spent the morning.
> He pursed his lips. “That is bad. I will speak to my brother-in-law on the subject. He is most sympathetic, and he has a friend who knows an important personage in the Amministrazione. There is, however,” he went on gaily, “no need for you to worry. The business is all in good order. Everything arranges itself admirably.”
It took me exactly four hours to find out just how admirably everything in the Milan office of the Spartacus Machine Tool Company did, in fact, arrange itself. The knowledge was profoundly depressing. Everything had arranged itself into the most disgusting muddle.
Hidden away in drawers and cupboards I found stacks of correspondence.
“Our files,” explained Bellinetti proudly.
I went through one pile with him. Roughly one half of it consisted of unanswered requests for information of various kinds, the other of accounting records that should have been sent to Wolverhampton over six months previously.
The latter I flourished in his face. “You might not have known how to deal with the letters,” I snapped, “but at least you should have known that these go to England.”
He eyed me apprehensively and flashed an uneasy smile.
“Signor Ferning said to keep them here, Signore.”
It was a palpable lie; but I said “Oh,” and went on to the next cupboard. This was a mistake, for, imagining, evidently, that he had found a formula that would silence my criticisms, he proceeded to invoke the name of my predecessor as every fresh defection came to light. He, Bellinetti, had known that it was wrong but-here a shrug-signor Ferning had said… It had not been for him to dispute with signor Ferning. Signor Ferning had had the confidence of those at Volver’ampton. He, Bellinetti, had done his best, but his services had not been recognised. I soon gave it up, and went back to my room to sit down behind the mountains of “files” now reposing on my desk. Bellinetti, a Daniel come to judgment, followed me.
For five minutes I talked without stopping. He smiled steadily through it all. By the time I had finished, however, the smile had changed considerably in quality. I saw, to my satisfaction, a new Bellinetti shining through it-a Bellinetti who would gladly have knifed me.
He shrugged, at last, disdainfully. “These things,” he said, “are not my responsibility, but that of signor Ferning.”
“Signor Ferning has been dead over two months.”
“Without assistance I can do nothing. Umberto is a cretin.”
I let this pass. I had, during the afternoon, formed my own opinion of Umberto.
“Who,” I pursued, “engaged the Signorina?”
I had already ascertained that she had been engaged since Ferning’s death, and he knew that I knew.
“I did, Signore. It was essential that I had some assistance. The Signorina has been a great help while I was here alone bearing the responsibilities for your English company.”
“The Signorina cannot even type.”
“She is my secretary, Signore.”
“You have no secretary, Bellinetti. The Signorina must go. You can tell her yourself or I will do so. Now be good enough to ask Umberto to come in. You need not stay any longer to-day. I shall expect to see you at nine o’clock to-morrow morning to go through these files of yours.”
“The office does not open until ten o’clock, Signore.”
“From now on, it opens at nine.”
The smile had deteriorated into a show of teeth. He retired, slamming the door after him. A moment or two later a terrified Umberto appeared.
“You wished to see me, Signore?”
“Yes, Umberto. How much do you earn a week?”
“Eighty lire, Signore.”
“Beginning this week you will receive a hundred lire a week.”
For a moment he goggled at me. Then, to my horror, he burst into tears. After a bit he began to stammer his thanks. He lived with his grandfather who was bed-ridden. His brother was doing his military service. His mother had died when he was born. His father had been killed by the Squadristi in nineteen-twenty-three. I was, he sobbed, his benefactor.
I got rid of him as soon as I could, and began the assault on Ferning’s desk.
The drawers were stuffed with blue-prints, specifications, German machine-tool catalogues and memoranda from Pelcher and Fitch. But there was a certain amount of order in the way in which it had been put away. I guessed that the desk had not been touched since Ferning’s death. The tone of the Wolverhampton correspondence was cordial and businesslike. I found also a set of false teeth in a thick cardboard box, two dirty handkerchiefs, a piece of soap, a razor, a slide-rule, an empty Strega bottle and a small loose-leaf note-book. I put these objects aside and began to sort the papers.
I became so immersed in the task that it was eight o’clock when I glanced at my wrist-watch and decided to finish for the day. I had told Bellinetti that he was to be in the office at nine. I should have to see that I was on time myself. Besides, except for some fruit that I had sent Umberto for during the afternoon, I had had nothing to eat since breakfast. It was time that I had dinner.
I rose and got my coat. As I was putting it on it brushed against the desk and knocked the note-book on to the floor. I picked the note-book up. It had fallen open and one of the leaves had come adrift. Almost automatically I patted it back into place and refastened the loose-leaf catch. Then I stopped and looked at it again. The page was covered with minute pencil notes. But it was not the notes that had made me look twice. Roughly printed in pencil at the head of the page was the word “VAGAS.”
I carried the book to the light and began to read. This, I remember, is how it began:
VAGAS
Dec. 30
S.A. Braga. Torino. 3 specials. adapt. 25 + 40 m.m. A.A.A. L. 64, L. 60. Borfors 1,200 plus. I stand. 10.5 c.m. N.A.A. 150 plus 40 m.t. bp. Spez. rept. 6 m. belt mg.s.a. 1.2 m. 14 mths. 6? 55 c.m. 30 ^o el. Mntgs. Gen.
The rest of the page was filled with similar hieroglyphics. I examined them carefully. It could, of course, be that the name and the date referred to an appointment and were nothing to do with the rest of the page; but that was unlikely. The whole page had the appearance of having been written at the same time. I looked at the other pages. They were all blank. A man didn’t write an appointment down in a book that he didn’t use fairly constantly. Well then, supposing Vagas and December the thirtieth were part of the rest of the page, who was S.A. Braga of Turin, and what did the rest of it mean? It looked as though Ferning had had some sort of business dealing with Vagas. That possibility didn’t quite fit in with the impression I had received from Vagas concerning his relationship with Ferning.
I folded the page and put it in my wallet. After all, it was nothing to do with me. I could enclose the page when I wrote to Vagas to put off our appointment for the following Wednesday. All the same, those notes were curious. I found myself wishing that I knew more about Ferning. I had only the vaguest picture of the man in my mind. According to Pelcher he had been nervous and sensitive. According to Vagas he had been a “Platonic realist,” with a penchant for ballet girls. The British Consulate had described him as “charming.” No doubt it didn’t matter what he had been like; but I still felt curious. I wished that I could have seen a photograph of him.
I switched off the lights, locked up and began to walk down the stairs. They were in darkness, but from a half-opened door on the third floor a shaft of light cut across the landing. I crossed it and was about to start down the next flight when the door swung open and a man came out. I half turned. He had his back to the light, and for a moment I did not recognise him. Then he spoke. It was the American.
“Hullo, Mr. Marlow.”
“Good evening.”
“You’re working late.”
“There’s rather a lot to be done just now. You’re none too early.”
“It’s not so good as it looks. I’ve been waiting for a long-distance call. What about a drink?”
I had a sudden desire for the company of someone who spoke English.
“I was
just going to have some dinner. Will you join me?”
“Glad to. I’ll just lock up if you don’t mind. Not,” he went on as he turned to do so, “that it matters a row of canned beans whether you lock or don’t lock here. The portinaia has a duplicate key. But it preserves the illusion. The great thing is not to leave anything private or valuable where she can lay her hands on it.”
I had been trying to read the name of his firm on the door, but he had switched the light out. But I knew there would be a name panel on the wall by the stairs. Under cover of lighting a cigarette I looked at it by the light of the match.
“Vittorio Saponi, Agent,” said a voice in my ear; “but my name is Zaleshoff, Andreas P. Zaleshoff. It’s a Russian name, but that’s my parents’ fault, not mine. It’s no use asking me where old Mister Saponi is, because the guy’s dead and I wouldn’t know. I bought the business off his son. Shall we go and eat?”
By the dying flame of the match I could see his blue eyes, shrewd and amused, on mine. I grinned back at him. We groped our way downstairs.
At his suggestion we went to a big underground restaurant near the Piazza Oberdan. The ceiling was low and the air was thick with tobacco smoke. The sound of an orchestra playing energetically in one corner was lost in the din of conversation.
“It’s noisy,” he acknowledged, “but the food’s German and pretty good. Besides, I thought you might like to know of the place. It’s convenient, and when you’re as tired of pasta as I am, it’s a godsend. You’ve only been here three days, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I got here Monday. By the way-sorry to be inquisitive-what are you agent for?”
“Moroccan perfumes, Czech jewellry and French bicycles.”
“Business good?”
“There isn’t any.” I did not know quite what to say to this but he went on. “No, Mr. Marlow, there isn’t so much as a smell of business. I was drilling for oil in Yugo-Slavia before I came here. I’d tapped a lot of gas and got the usual indications but I decided eventually to give it up as a bad job and the Government there took over. Three weeks later they struck it good and hard-gushers. When Fate makes a dirty crack like that, Mr. Marlow, it’s apt to jaundice a man’s outlook. I came here and bought this outfit off the executors of the late V. Saponi. The books looked pretty good. It wasn’t until I’d actually paid over my good dollars that I found that all the goodwill in the agency had died with old Saponi and that young Saponi had side-tracked what pickings were left into his own pants’ pocket.”