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.”
“That’s bad.”
“Bad enough. Fortunately, I’ve got other contacts. All the same, I’ve promised myself a good five minutes with young Saponi one of these days.” His jaw jutted forward. He regarded me with an expression of amiable ferocity. “I suppose you wouldn’t like to buy a French bicycle, Mr. Marlow? I’ve got the sample somewhere.”
I laughed. “I’m afraid I shan’t have much time for cycling. There’s a lot to be done on the fourth floor.”
He nodded. “I thought there might be. Your people in Wolverhampton were rather long about appointing someone.”
“You knew Ferning, didn’t you, Mr. Zaleshoff?”
He nodded and began to roll himself a cigarette.
“Yes, I did. Why?”
“Oh, nothing in particular. Except that I’ve no idea what he looked like.”
“I shouldn’t think that would worry you.”
“It doesn’t. I’m just curious.”
“Any special reason for the curiosity?” It could not have been said more casually.
“No. Only so many people seem to want to know if I knew Ferning. Even the police seem interested.”
“The police! You don’t want to take any notice of them.”
“It’s difficult not to take notice. I spent practically the whole morning at the Amministrazione.” I launched into a somewhat spiteful account of my encounter with the signor Capitano. He listened but made no comment. By the time I had finished, the food had arrived.
We ate in comparative silence. I was, quite frankly, more interested in my food than in conversation. This seemed to suit my companion. His thoughts seemed to have strayed. Once I noticed him gazing moodily at the table-cloth, his fork poised in mid-air. His eyes met mine and he grinned. “There’s a soup stain on the cloth that looks exactly like South America,” he said apologetically. But it was obvious that his mind had not been on the soup stain which was, in any case, shaped more like the Isle of Wight. I put it down to the late Vittorio Saponi.
“I think,” I said when I had finished, “that I’ll have a brandy with my coffee.”
“Have you tried Strega yet, Mr. Marlow?”
“No, but I think I’ll postpone that pleasure. I feel like brandy. Will you join me?”
“Thanks.” He looked at me for a moment. Then:
“Who else has asked you about Ferning, Mr. Marlow?”
“A man who calls himself General Vagas. Do you know him?”
“The guy that gets himself up like a rocking horse?”
I laughed. “That sounds like him. Apparently he’s a Yugo-Slav. He wants me to go to dinner with him and his wife next week. Do you know anything about him?”
“Not very much.” His expression had become quite blank. He was scarcely listening to me. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers and his face lit up in triumph. “Got it!” He beamed at me. “You know how it is, Mr. Marlow, when you kind of feel you’ve lost something somewhere and can’t quite think what? Well, that’s how I felt. But I’ve just remembered. In my office, I’ve got a photograph of Ferning. Would you like to see it?”
I was rather disconcerted by this sudden interest.
“Well, yes. I would. Perhaps I could look down some time to-morrow.”
“To-morrow?” He looked at me incredulously. “Tomorrow nothing. We’ll call back in the office when we leave. I’ve got a bottle of brandy there. The real stuff. Not like this.”
“I shouldn’t dream of bothering you.” I did not, in any case, feel like toiling back to the Via San Giulio at that time of night.
But he was adamant. “It’s no bother at all, Mr. Marlow. Glad to be of assistance. I can’t think why I didn’t remember before. It’s only a snap, mind you, and not particularly good of him. He wanted some photographs for his identity card and I had a Kodak. I’d forgotten all about it until just now.” He changed the subject abruptly. “How are you getting on with Bellinetti?”
“Not too badly,” I said cautiously. “He probably resents me a little.”
“Sure, sure”-he nodded sagely-“only natural for a guy in his position.” He summoned the waiter and asked for the bill, which he discomforted me by insisting on paying.