by Eric Ambler
I turned to the clerk.
“I wonder if that Berlin call would be for me,” I said in Italian.
“What name, Signore?”
“Marlow.”
He turned to the operator and said something to her in German. I did not understand her actual reply, but two things I did understand. One was her impatient shake of the head, the other was the name “Herr Vagas.” That was enough.
“No, Signore,” said the clerk; “it is not for you.”
The following morning Zaleshoff and Tamara saw me off on the Paris train.
We were standing on the platform with about two minutes to go when I remembered something that I had forgotten to ask him.
“Zaleshoff, what did you mean the other morning when you said that you were more worried by what that paper didn’t print than what it did?”
It was Tamara who answered. “He was afraid that they might have detained me. He’s always afraid for me.”
“I see.” I hesitated. Then: “Look here, I’ve got a finicking sort of mind. Do you mind telling me exactly what you did with those queer files of yours. You surely didn’t leave them for the police to find and I really can’t see how you could burn such a mass of paper without attracting attention.”
They looked uncomfortable.
“Well,” said Zaleshoff airily, “those were Saponi’s old files.”
“But what about those cards that…” I stopped. I was beginning to understand. “I suppose,” I went on slowly, “that it wouldn’t be that the two cards I saw, Ferning’s and Vagas’, were the only two cards there were?”
For once Zaleshoff had nothing to say. I nodded grimly. “I see.”
Just then the whistle blew and I climbed into the train. They were both standing on the platform, looking up at me. The girl was smiling, but Zaleshoff’s jaw was stuck out defiantly. I wanted suddenly to laugh at him. The train began to move.
I leaned down.
“Don’t forget to send me a postcard from Moscow.”
They had begun to walk along by the side of the train.
Suddenly he grinned. “I will,” he called back; “that is, if I ever get around to the place.”
And then, as the train gathered speed, he began to run. Almost immediately he cannoned into a porter’s trolley; but he scrambled to his feet again and ran on. When I last saw him he was standing on the end of the platform waving a bright red handkerchief after me. No, you could not help liking Zaleshoff.
I spent two days with Claire before I went up to Wolverhampton.
When I had arrived, there had been a letter waiting for me. It was from Hallett. In it were the five pounds which he had borrowed from me just before I had left for Italy and, more important, the offer of a job under him with his new employers. Having telephoned my grateful acceptance, I travelled north armed.
I saw Fitch first. He greeted me with gloomy enthusiasm.
“The bottom’s out of the export market,” he said; “and, of course, just as we’d got hold of a really good man to handle the Milan end, this had to happen. It beats me, Marlow. We’ve been using that special appropriation ever since we started over there. Ferning never had any trouble. Some new broom, I expect. We were pretty worried about you. Did you have any trouble getting out?”
“Well, it was a bit awkward because they had my passport. But I made for the Yugo-Slav side and sneaked out across the frontier.”
“And you heard nothing about it in Yugo-Slavia, I gather. Well, all’s well that ends well, I suppose. But where we stand now, I don’t know. I don’t see how the ice-creamers could wriggle out of their contracts with us even if they wanted to. Pelcher’s going over in a few days to straighten things out. Everyone here is doing well except the export department,” he went on sombrely; “we’ve started supplying the shadow factories. Pelcher’s very pleased.”
“What does he think about this Milan business?”
“He says that it’s the fortune of war. I don’t quite know what he means, but he’s stuck that label on to it, so there we are. You’ll find him very cheerful. Apart from the shadow factories, he’s had a spirit level let into the head of his new driver, and reckons that it’s going to bring his handicap down to eighteen. He thinks it’ll be worth nearly a stroke a hole to him; but, as I told him, even if St. Andrew’s would permit it, it’s not the club head but the ball that he ought to keep his eyes on. He’ll never make a golfer.”
Soon the message came that Mr. Pelcher was disengaged and would see me.
His reception of me was overwhelming. He pressed me into a chair, ordered tea, and gave me a cigar. Then he sat back, tugging at his collar and beaming while I repeated once more the prepared version of my experiences.
“Well, Mr. Marlow,” he said breezily when I had finished, “I must congratulate you on extricating yourself from a very difficult position with skill and discretion. Frankly, we were a little worried until we heard from you; but, as I said to Fitch, I had considerable faith in your tact. There was never, I felt, any real cause for alarm.”
“It is very kind of you to say so.”
“And now,” he went on, “we must think of the future. It is out of the question for you to return to Italy.”
“Utterly, I am afraid.”
“Ah well-the fortune of war, you know.” He tugged at his collar. “Let me see now. Fitch badly needs an assistant and I dare say…”
“One moment, Mr. Pelcher,” I interrupted. “I think I should tell you now that I have been offered and have accepted the post of production engineer to one of the Cator amp; Bliss branch factories. Perhaps I should have told you before. I am afraid that I assumed…”
“That we should let you down?” He looked hurt, but I could see the relief in his eyes.
“Not exactly that, Sir; but I have come to the conclusion that I am far more suited to a works job.”
“Once an engineer always an engineer, eh? Well, I can sympathise with that.” For a moment I thought I saw a shadow cross his face; but that was, no doubt, my imagination. He stood up. “Well, my boy, we shall be sorry to lose you so soon, but, of course, we can’t stand in your way. And besides,” he added jovially, “we’ve just started supplying S2 machines to Cator amp; Bliss. You won’t be losing touch with us altogether, eh?”
“It’s very good of you to put it like that.”
“Nonsense, my dear chap! You’ll fix the financial details with Fitch, of course. You might spend some of your remaining time with us making him familiar with the Milan details so that he can give me a report. Meanwhile”-he held out his hand-“let me wish you the very best of luck.” We shook hands warmly. I thanked him again. We walked towards the door.
“By the way,” he said suddenly, “I’d like to have your technical opinion on my new driver. Fitch is sceptical; but then you know what these scratch golfers are. You don’t play, so I think you’ll see the beauty of the idea.”
I had dinner with Fitch. It was dark when I left Wolverhampton. I shared a compartment with a well-dressed, beefy man who sat under an enormous suitcase perched rather precariously on the rack. Tied to the handle was a travel agency label. For a while he read a Birmingham paper. I looked out of the window. Then, in the distance, I saw the glow of blast furnaces.
The paper rustled. “Nice to see them working like that again, isn’t it?” he remarked.
“Yes, very.”
“Are you a Birmingham man?”
“No.”
“We’re not doing so badly up here. Can’t turn the stuff out fast enough.”
“That must be very heartening.”
“Yes. I’m off on a tour, through Italy. First class all the way after London, and all tips included in the ticket. No need to worry about the lingo either.”
“It sounds good.”
“I was there for a day or two last Easter. It’s a fine place for a holiday is Italy. Now that Mussolini’s on the job, the trains run nearly as good as ours. You ought to try it.”
I settl
ed back in my corner. I was feeling tired.
“I’m afraid,” I said, “that Italy would be a little too hot for me.”
He nodded understandingly. “Yes, there are some people who can’t stand the heat. My late wife was like that. Either you can stand it or you can’t. It’s just the way you’re made, I always say.”
Epilogue
THE THIRD FACTOR
There follows a short extract from an article which appeared in a French periodical during the summer of the year in which the events described by Mr. Nicholas Marlow occurred. The title of the article was The Shifting Sands of Europe.
“… any assessment… of the situation must be based on the knowledge gained during the past few weeks.
“Several factors have operated to produce the present easement of tension. The first and most potent has been the hardening of American financial opinion in relation to possible aggressor states. The clear expression by responsible persons of the opinion that, from the point of view of capital, a falsified national balance sheet is no better for being national instead of private, was timely. The second has been the decision with which the Anglo-French bloc has functioned now that misunderstandings have been disposed of. A third influence has been the unexpected coolness which has developed lately between two partners of the Axis. The cause is understood to be of a military nature and to concern the Brenner Pass. The details are obscure, but it appears that the mutual assurances given in Rome not so long ago have not proved as durable as had been expected by the parties concerned.
“This much is clear. Extended co-operation on the part of the three great European democracies, France, Great Britain and our ally, Soviet Russia, backed by the moral support of the United States, would be an irresistible force for peace. But…”
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