by Eric Ambler
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 Red!”
The wheel-tapper raised his hammer menacingly. His mouth tightened. “Keep your mouth shut,” he said slowly, “or I’ll knock your brains out.”
I was bewildered. I looked at Zaleshoff. As if nothing had happened, he was uncorking the bottle. He extended it to me. I shook my head and stared at him.
“You won’t have another chance for a while,” he said with a shrug. “They don’t serve it in prison.”
He put the bottle to his mouth and tilted it. There was not much left in the bottle and I could not help seeing that the liquid did not get as far as his mouth. He lowered the bottle and smacked his lips.
“That was good,” he said.
He got slowly to his feet and extended the bottle to the greaser.
“Have some, comrade?” he said.
The man scowled and opened his mouth to refuse. Suddenly Zaleshoff stepped forward and the bottle moved quickly in his hand.
The next moment the greaser was staggering back, his hands clapped to his eyes and brandy streaming down his face. Almost simultaneously Zaleshoff’s arm with the bottle in it flew up and smashed the electric-light bulb.
After the naked glare of the lamp, the half-light of dawn seemed pitch blackness. The greaser was shouting and swearing violently. There was a quick scuffling, a sudden stamping of feet and a sharp grunt. The greaser stopped shouting. There was a sudden silence. For a split second I stood there bewildered, then I came to my senses and jumped towards where I knew the door to be. It was madness. I knew it. The man with the hammer would brain us before we could get out. Then a hand gripped my shoulder. I spun round, drew back my fist and drove it into the shadow behind me. The next instant my wrist was caught and held.
“It’s me, you fool!” hissed Zaleshoff. “Get out quick!”
He flung the door open and we tumbled out into the air.
“But…”
“Shut up!” he snarled. “Run!”
Even as he spoke, I saw the foreman’s torch bobbing towards us at the end of the concrete path.
We raced across the lines. Then I caught my foot in a sleeper and went sprawling. Zaleshoff dragged me to my feet. There were shouts raised behind us.
“Quick, Marlow! Down by the engine shed!”
I saw the bulk of it outlined against the bluing sky. We clattered across the steel turntable in front of it and turned down a cinder track alongside a line of trucks. Zaleshoff dived under the coupling between two of them. I followed. On the other side we paused. As far as I could see we were going in the direction of the station proper. There were lights ahead and a large open space criss-crossed by rails. Zaleshoff turned round.
“It’s no good this way,” he muttered. “There’s no cover. They’d see us before we got to the station.”
The shouts were growing nearer. I heard a man calling for more lights.
“Come on,” said Zaleshoff, “we’ve got just one chance. Follow me and do exactly as I do, and for the love of Pete do it quietly.”
He started to walk quickly back along the line of trucks towards the engine shed and to the men approaching on the other side. I could hear their footsteps now and the voice of the foreman exhorting them to hurry. Zaleshoff walked on steadily for a bit and then stopped. For a minute we stood behind a truck. Then we heard our pursuers pass to the right of us.
“Come on!” said Zaleshoff.
We walked on down the line of trucks. Towards the end of it there were four cattle vans. Opposite the first of these he stopped.
“Up on the roof for us,” he said.
He reached up, grasped the bottom staple and clambered up. I followed. A moment or two later we were lying spread-eagled on the roof. I glanced back and saw that torches were flashing at the end of the line. My heart gave a leap.
“They’re searching the trucks,” I whispered.
“I know. Keep absolutely flat and lie still.”
I obeyed. My nose was jammed against a conical ventilator. There was no doubt about it being a cattle truck; but I scarcely noticed the smell. I was listening to the voices coming nearer and nearer. I could feel my heart beating against the curved hard surface of the roof. There seemed, I thought, to be about eight of them. I could distinguish the foreman’s voice and that of another man obviously in authority. Both seemed anxious to propitiate that man. He was, I guessed, a policeman.
“Certainly we shall recapture them,” I heard the foreman say; “certainly. Without a doubt. They could not have got away in this time. If they have doubled back, your own men will catch them. There is no way out. When it is a little lighter…”
The policeman emitted an exclamation of impatience.
“We cannot wait for the light.” He paused. “If I see them I shall shoot immediately. I do not believe that these men are tramps. That they have no identity cards is very suspicious.” Another pause. “See that your men search thoroughly. Not a centimetre of this train must be left unsearched. Do you hear?”
There was silence again. My heart pounded. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Zaleshoff’s hand moving slowly to his side. It stayed there for a moment, then it moved slowly upwards again. By the growing light I saw that he had a revolver in his hand.
Instinctively I stretched out my hand and clutched his sleeve. He shook me off and wormed his way slowly towards the edge of the roof.
They were only two trucks away now and on both sides of the line. I could hear them panting over their exertions as they climbed up the sides of the trucks and stripped back the tarpaulins. Then something struck the side of the truck on which we were lying. A moment later the sliding doors below us were rolled back. There was a pause. They were evidently flashing a torch round the interior. One of the men muttered “ niente.” Then a boot grated on the bottom staple and a man began to climb up to the roof.
I listened to the man’s feet as he clambered up. One, two, three, four… another step and the top of his head would be visible. We were caught. I waited for his shout. I wondered desperately whether it would not be better to stand up there and then and surrender. The policeman might not shoot. As I swallowed down the saliva that kept filling my mouth I saw that Zaleshoff had moved so that he was near the edge of the roof at the point where the man would appear. The next moment the top of the man’s head came into view. He took another step and the white shape of his face appeared. At that moment Zaleshoff’s left arm shot out and he grasped the man’s collar. I saw his right hand jab the revolver against the side of the man’s head.
It was done in a fraction of a second. With his hands grasping the staples on the side of the van he could not attempt to defend himself. I heard him give a stifled sob of terror. Then, too softly for me to hear, Zaleshoff whispered something to him. The next moment the man was climbing slowly on to the roof. I could see his face more clearly now. His mouth was half open and his eyes were moving quickly from side to side seeking some way of escape. He bent forward to steady himself by putting his hands on the roof. Zaleshoff lifted his right arm. I saw him twirl the revolver round by the trigger guard and grasp the barrel. Then he brought the butt down with all his strength on the back of the man’s head.
The man gasped once and slumped forward half on the roof and half off it.
“Pull him up,” whispered Zaleshoff.
I grasped the man’s outstretched arms and pulled. I saw Zaleshoff trying to draw the feet sideways on to the roof. It was difficult to exert any force while we were lying on our faces, but somehow we managed it. There was a movement from below and the policeman called up to know if there was anything to be seen on the roofs of the other cattle trucks.
Zaleshoff squirmed across the roof to the far side.
“ Niente,” he called back. He slurred the word so that it was little more than a grunt.
&n
bsp; There was a curse from below. I heard the doors of the next truck being rolled back. The unconscious man’s head had begun to bleed profusely, and the blood was trickling slowly down the curved roof and soaking into the shoulder of my overcoat. I tried to move, but Zaleshoff stopped me with a warning gesture. I heard the search go on to the third and then the fourth van. Then I saw Zaleshoff beckon. I edged across to him. He brought his lips close to my ear.
“We’ll go down one at a time now,” he whispered. “You go first. When you get to the ground turn right, away from them, and walk, walk, mind you, slowly and quietly along by the trucks. Keep close in to them. They’ll miss this poor sucker any minute now, and we’ve got to get clear. I’ll catch you up.”
With infinite care and feeling as conspicuous as an aeroplane caught in searchlights, I swung my legs over the edge of the roof, rolled over on my face and felt with my toes for the staples. A moment or two later I reached the ground. I gave one glance at the torches still flashing about twenty-five yards away. I wanted badly to run; but I controlled myself carefully. Zaleshoff had said walk. I turned and walked. I heard a slight sound behind me and Zaleshoff had caught me up. We reached the cover of the engine shed in safety.
It was possible by this time to distinguish something of our surroundings. Far away to the right of us was the weighbridge office. Facing the engine shed about a hundred yards away was a long low building that looked like a warehouse. I remembered what I had overheard.
“I heard the foreman say that that way was guarded,” I said quickly, for he was peering in that direction.
“So did I. We’re not going that way. We’ve got to get across those lines on to the station side, and I guess there’s only one way to do it. Come on. We’ll see what we can find in here.”
I felt suddenly irritable. My nerves were raw. He was treating me, I thought, like a child. And I was feeling sorry for the man he had clubbed.
“What do you expect to find? Are you planning to pinch an engine and ride out on that?”
“Don’t be damned silly. Come on.”
We walked to the end of the cinder path and turned into the engine shed. It was a large building constructed on a slight curve so that the lines on which the engines ran under cover converged on the turntable. The glass roof was practically obscured by soot deposits and it was very dark inside. There were five or six engines in it.
Zaleshoff led the way round behind them. Then I heard him give a grunt of satisfaction. We stopped. I could see him fumbling with something in the darkness near the wall. Suddenly he straightened his back and thrust something greasy and soft into my hands.
“What is it?”
“What I was looking for. A driver’s coat. Get your overcoat off and put it on. There’s a cap here, too.”
I put the coat on. As my eyes got used to the darkness I could see that he was doing the same. On his head was a beret. He handed me a cap with a shiny peak. The coat smelt strongly of coal, grease and sweat.
“Have you kept your scarf?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Give me your overcoat and hat.”
I did so and he stuffed them behind a steel locker.
“I don’t,” I said, “see the point of all this. Do you imagine that we’re going to get past the police on the strength of a couple of coats?”
“No. What we are going to do is to walk across the lines into the station and…”
“And hide in the lavatories, I suppose,” I supplemented ironically.
“Maybe. Let’s go.”
A minute later we broke cover and began to walk across the tracks towards the end of the line of trucks that separated us from the main lines.
It was a nerve-racking business. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Zaleshoff’s victim had been found. They had lowered him from the roof of the van and he was sitting on the ground, his hands clasping his head. A group of them, including the foreman, was standing round talking excitedly. The policeman with his revolver at the ready was stalking rapidly in the direction of the warehouse. A railway official was trailing anxiously in his wake. We passed the line of trucks safely and started to cross the main lines diagonally towards the station. It may have been my nerves or it may have been that the driver’s coat was a good deal thinner than my overcoat, but by the time we had reached the station I was shivering violently.
The station platforms were practically deserted; but there were two bored-looking militiamen leaning against the wall by each exit. There was also a man with a trolley buffet talking to a porter on one of the eastbound platforms. Zaleshoff changed direction suddenly and began to walk towards it.
“What’s the idea?” I muttered.
“That buffet means that there’s a night train due in. If it’s got third-class coaches, we’ll jump it.”
“What about tickets?”
“We’ve got uniforms on. We can go third-class free.”
We reached the platform.
I think that those ten minutes we had to wait for the train were the worst part of it.
The sky was grey and a thin drizzle had begun to fall; but it was now light. The goods yard seemed very near. The station was very quiet, and small sounds, the scraping of a foot, a cough, echoed from the curved roof. To my overwrought imagination, the porter, the buffet attendant and the militiamen seemed all to be staring at us suspiciously.
“For God’s sake,” muttered Zaleshoff, “don’t look so darned sinister. You look as though you’d just made arrangements to blow up the station. Don’t look at them, look at me; and look as if you liked it. Come on, we’ll try a slow walk towards the buffet. We can’t stand here all the time. It looks too exclusive. Have you got your cigarettes?”
“Yes.”
“Break one in half in your pocket, stick one end in your mouth and light up. If those two start talking to us, keep your mouth shut and leave it to me. They’ll spot your accent.”
My fingers were shaking so much that it took me over a minute to light the cigarette. By that time, Zaleshoff was sauntering, hands in pockets, towards the buffet. Suppressing a desire to run after him, I followed slowly. I caught him up as he was nearing the buffet. The porter and the buffet attendant had stopped talking and were watching our approach. I felt sick with apprehension. Then the porter nodded to Zaleshoff.
“Trouble over at the goods yard, they tell me,” he said.
He was a youngish man with quick blue eyes.
Zaleshoff shrugged. His voice when he spoke was thick, as though he had a cold, and he slurred his words. It would have been difficult to detect any accent.
“They found a couple of tramps hiding in a truck,” he said. “One of them hit one of our chaps with a bottle and they got away. They must be hiding in another truck now. But they won’t get out of the yard.”
The porter leaned forward confidentially. “We’ve had a message here to look out for them. It is said that they may be the two foreigners that escaped from Milan.”
Zaleshoff whistled softly.
The porter smacked his lips. “Ten thousand lire! That’s something, isn’t it?”
“Not so bad. But”-he looked puzzled-“I thought there was only one of them.”
The porter whipped a newspaper out of his pocket. “No, two. The police think that he has another man with him, this foreigner. They were seen in a caffe near Treviglio the night before last. The padrone recognised one of them from the photograph in the paper. Look, here it is. No photograph of the second man, but a description. You know, I think that these are not Englishmen, but French, or perhaps English spies working for the French. The French will stab us in the back if they can. Yesterday I carried the baggage of a Frenchman, three heavy suitcases, and found him a good corner seat with his back to the engine as he wished. He gave me five lire. Five lire only!” He gazed at us in bitter triumph.
“Ah, the French!” said Zaleshoff. He glanced at the paper idly and laughed. “Well, it won’t be you or me that’ll collect that ten thousan
d. It’ll be a policeman. You mark my words.”
“Policeman!” chimed in the buffet attendant suddenly. He lowered his voice. “A man was telling me in the caffe last night that it was not the police whom these men escaped from in Milan, but-well-you know who I mean.” He looked from one to the other of us meaningly.
Zaleshoff shrugged again. “Perhaps.” He turned and dug me jovially in the ribs. “Hey, what about ten thousand lire, Beppe?” He turned again to the other two. “He’s sulking. His woman is at home in Udine, and he’s thinking that there will be a couple of his mates underneath the bed when he gets back.”
The three of them roared with laughter. I scowled. Zaleshoff dug me in the ribs again.
“Where did you say you came from?” said the porter suddenly.
“Udine, and that’s where we’re going back to.”
“Then how did you get this way?”
He was looking puzzled. My heart missed a beat. Zaleshoff must have blundered in some way.
“Brought a train of refrigerator vans up from Padova. Special job.” He said it easily enough; but I saw a wary look in his eyes.
The porter nodded, but I could see that he was thinking this over. I saw the blue eyes flicker once from me to Zaleshoff. It was with an inward sigh of relief that I saw that the train had been signalled. Zaleshoff nodded towards the signal.
“Where’s this one going?” he said.
It was the buffet attendant who replied.
“Belgrade and Sofia direttissimo, with a slip coach for Athens. It’s got third all right as far as Trieste.”
“Venezia’ll do for us.”
The porter opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again. I saw him shrug slightly as if dismissing a thought from his mind. Then he strolled away up the platform and began to man?uvre a trolley into position ready to transfer the packages with which it was loaded to the luggage van on the train. But I noticed that from time to time he glanced at us. Another porter appeared with a postal official and a mountainous load of mail bags. The buffet attendant began to test the automatic coffee urn on his trolley. The smell of hot coffee was exquisite torture. The attendant looked at our empty hands.