Yours sincerely,
Alfred Pelcher.
From Maggiore Generale J. L. Vagas to myself.
Corso Di Porta Nuova,
Milano,
April 20.
My dear Mr. Marlow,
I am anxious to have a chat with you on a matter of some importance. I should be pleased if you could spare time to dine with me at my house to-morrow. Shall we say at eight o’clock? Perhaps you would be good enough to telephone me if you are unable to come.
With kindest regards,
Yours sincerely,
J. L. Vagas.
From myself to Maggiore Generale J. L. Vagas. By hand.
Hotel Parigi,
Milano,
April 21.
My dear General,
I am afraid that I cannot dine with you to-morrow. May I remind you of our conversation on the subject of future communications between us?
Yours very truly,
Nicholas Marlow.
From “J. L. Venezetti” to “N. Marinetti,” Poste Restante, American Express, Milano.
MILANO,
April 21.
Dear Sir,
I should not have requested an interview unless the matter were of vital importance. It is imperative that I see you at once. Will you please let me know by return of post when and where I can meet you. I leave the time and the place to your selection.
Yours faithfully,
J. L. Venezetti.
From “N. Marinetti” to “J. L. Venezetti,” Poste Restante, Wagon-Lits-Cook, Milano.
Milano,
April 22.
Dear Sir,
I shall be driving a dark-blue Fiat limousine at about 35 km. per hour along the Milan-Varese autostrada at about 10.45 on Sunday night. I shall stop only for a car drawn up at the side of the road facing Varese and about 25 km. from Milan and showing two rear lights close together.
Yours faithfully,
N. Marinetti.
11
It was Zaleshoff who had made the arrangements for the meeting between Vagas and myself. I had received his proposals with some amusement.
“Blood and thunder,” I had commented.
He had frowned. “I don’t know about the thunder, but if the Ovra gets on to the fact that you’re meeting Vagas, it’ll be your blood all right.”
“Where’s the Fiat coming from?”
“I’ll fix that.”
“But why on Sunday?”
“Because there’ll be a procession here on Sunday afternoon.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“You’ve been under surveillance practically ever since you came here and since that beating up they gave you, you’ve had two of the guys on your tail. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I’ve seen them. They hang about opposite the office all day.”
“Before you can meet Vagas you’ll have to get rid of them. This procession’ll make it easy.”
“How?”
“You’ll see. You write that letter.”
I had written it.
Waiting to be blackmailed is an odd experience. I could not help wondering how Vagas would set about it. What line would he take? He had, hitherto, been all amiability. There was even a sort of oily charm about him. Would he shed his amiability or would the charm intensify, a velvet glove to enclose the mailed fist? I amused myself by speculating.
There was about those days I spent in Milan a curious air of the fantastic. That I had regretted the mood of bitter resentment that had led me into agreeing to carry out Zaleshoff’s plan, goes without saying. Yet, such is the mind’s ability to adapt itself to an idea, the thought that I might back out of the whole business occurred to me only as a sort of protest, an unexecutable threat. And I had decided to resign from Spartacus. That was the important thing. It was, perhaps, that decision more than anything else that determined my attitude. I was shortly to leave Milan. The fact lent a disarming air of impermanence to the situation. In two months or so I should be home and then I really could get down to the business of getting a good job. What happened between now and then seemed of secondary importance. I no longer identified myself with Spartacus. As I had told Claire, I had no conscience about the company. I had, with Vagas’ assistance, secured a valuable order for them. That was that. All I had to do until the time came for me to leave was to see that their interests were adequately protected. If the opportunity presented itself I would secure still more business for them. That was all. In point of fact, it was no less than I should have done if I had been remaining with them. But my attitude was different, it was qualified. I had a sense of being independent, of being to some extent on holiday. This business of Zaleshoff’s was, I felt, almost in the nature of a game. That I did not know the rules of it was, no doubt, just as well for my peace of mind.
Since the night I had spent in his office, I had seen Zaleshoff practically every day. At first his mood had been one of lip-smacking anticipation. Everything, he assured me repeatedly, was prepared. It was only a question of waiting for Vagas to begin to turn the screw. Then, as the month wore on without any sign of life from Vagas, his jubilation gave way to gloomy forebodings. He became irritable. Several times I was tempted to abandon the whole thing and twice threatened to do so. On both occasions he offered exasperated apologies. My admiration for his sister’s forbearance increased daily. Yet, to a certain extent, I could understand his anxiety.
“I’m beginning to think,” he declared gloomily on one occasion, “that it was a mistake to cook those Spartacus figures.”
“You know darn well I wouldn’t have given him the correct ones.”
“Very likely. But he’s probably gone to the trouble to check the first lot and found that they’re phoneys. He probably thinks you put one over on him to get that Ordnance Department contract and has written you off as a bad investment.”
“How could he check them?”
“How should I know? But it’s the only thing that can have happened. How else can you explain this silence? He’s got all the stuff he wants to blackmail you with. Why doesn’t he get on with it?”
“Perhaps he’s waiting until I send in this month’s figures, sort of lulling me into a sense of false security.”
“Maybe. I hope you’re right. This waiting is getting on my nerves.”
That much was obvious. The reason for it puzzled me. I myself was conscious of a sense of anti-climax, almost of disappointment; but I was intrigued by his attitude. Why should the situation get on his nerves to so absurd an extent? For me it was no more than a somewhat sinister game. For him it looked like a matter of life and death importance. A great many of the things which Vagas had told me were, no doubt, lies. But, in one thing, at least, he had, I felt, told me something approaching the truth.
Over our coffee one evening I worked round to the subject. It was fairly easy to do. His despair had been more than usually extravagant. I awaited an opening. Then:
“I admit that it’s all very irritating. But, for the life of me, Zaleshoff, I cannot see why you should take it so much to heart.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You don’t think that the peace of Europe is something that a guy can get anxious about?” His tone was almost offensively sarcastic.
“Oh yes. The peace of Europe, to be sure! But if we could get down to Mother Earth for a minute…”
“Mother Earth!” His voice rose angrily. “Mother Earth! Say, listen, Marlow. It pains me to have to tell you this because, dumb cluck that you are, it would be just as well if you didn’t know it: but you, Heaven protect us, happen to be of some importance at the moment. Say, have you ever had a suitcase to unlock and a bunch of odd keys in your hand? There’s just one key that fits. None of the others matters a curse. They’re keys but they’re not the key. Well, it’s like that now. And you’re the key.”
I was a little irritated by his manner. “What about leaving out the metaphors and trying plain English?”