I did not like the sound of that at all.
“Well, anyway,” I said with feeble heartiness, “the worst that can come of it is a nice stay in prison.”
It was as much a question as a statement. I was afraid, as soon as I had said it, that he would answer the question, and he did.
“Prison? Yes-maybe.”
“What do you mean by ‘maybe’?”
“They have a formula for these things hereabouts. It’s called ‘shot while attempting to evade arrest.’ ”
“And if you don’t attempt to evade arrest?”
“Then,” he said calmly, “they make you kneel down. Then they put a bullet through the back of your neck and call it ‘shot while escaping.’ ”
I laughed, not very convincingly, but I laughed. I decided that he was trying to frighten me.
“Newspaper talk!” I said.
He shrugged. “My friend, when you’re above the law, when you are the law, the phrase about ends justifying means has a real meaning. Put yourself in their place. If you felt that the state which you worshipped above your God was endangered by the life of one insignificant man, would you hesitate to have him shot? I can tell you that you wouldn’t. That’s the danger of Fascism, of state-worship. It supposes an absolute, an egocentric unit. The idea of the state is not rooted in the masses, it is not of the people. It is an abstract, a God-idea, a psychic dung-hill raised to shore up an economic system that is no longer safe. When you’re on the top of that sort of dung-hill, it doesn’t matter whether the ends are in reality good or bad. The fact that they are your ends makes them good-for you.”
But I was scarcely listening to him. I was trying to sort out the confusion of my thoughts. Claire! what would she have done? But Claire was not there. In any case, she would have been too wise to have involved herself in such an affair. I tried to strike out along a new line, but eventually I found that it turned back on itself. I was thinking in circles. In desperation I turned again to Zaleshoff.
He was busily crushing a lump of sugar in the bottom of his coffee cup.
“Tell me what you propose.”
He looked at me quickly. Then he put the spoon down, put his hand in his pocket and drew out a small map of Northern Italy. He spread it on the table in front of me. With his pencil he indicated a point north-east of Treviglio.
“We’re just about here. Now we could make for Como and the Swiss frontier. But if we did that we’d be doing precisely what they’ll expect us to do. Even if we got as far as Como, the lake patrols would get us. I propose that we make for the Yugo-Slav frontier between Fusine and Kranjska. We can go most of the way by night trains, so that we can sleep. In the daytime we can double on our tracks across country and pick up the railway at another point. Now, that’s going to cost money. Trains here are expensive unless you have the tourist discount, and we can’t very well claim that. I’ve got a bit more than you, but it only makes about fifteen hundred lire between us. That’s not enough. Before we leave here I shall telephone Tamara and tell her to get some money to Udine. Then we’ll make cross-country for the railway where it runs south of Lake Garda at Desenzano. What do you think about it?”
There was a pause.
“Well,” I said grimly, “if you really want to know, I think it’s one of the most remarkable pieces of understatement I’ve ever listened to. It sounds like a Sunday-school treat. Auntie Alice will distribute the buns at Udine.”
His brows knitted. He opened his mouth and drew breath to speak.
“But,” I went on firmly, “we’ll leave that side of it out for the moment. What I want to know is why on earth you should choose the Yugo-Slav frontier. What about the French? What about the German?”
He shrugged. “That’s precisely what they’ll say.”
“I see. The French, Swiss and German frontiers are going to be stiff with guards, but the Yugo-Slav frontier’s going to be like the Sahara Desert. Is that right?”
He frowned. “I didn’t say that.”
“No,” I retorted angrily, “but you wish you could. I suppose the fact that we’re going to make for the Yugo-Slav frontier wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Vagas is in Belgrade would it? or with the fact that, as I haven’t got a passport, I could not get into Yugo-Slavia from France or Switzerland or Germany without swearing affidavits and heaven knows what else in London first?”
He reddened. “There’s no need to get hot under the collar about it.”
I spluttered furiously. “Hot under the collar! Dammit, Zaleshoff, there are limits…”
He leaned forward eagerly.
“Wait a minute! Don’t forget that you’ve got close on two hundred and fifty dollars to collect from Vagas. It would look perfectly natural for you to make for Belgrade to collect them. For all he knows, you may be flat broke. You will be, anyway, by the time you get to Belgrade. Besides, what difference does it make? If they catch you, you won’t get much change out of them by explaining that you’d decided, after all, not to cause them any more trouble. You started a good job of work. Why not finish it?”
I regarded him sullenly. “I made a fool of myself once. I see no reason why I should do so again.”
He stared at the tablecloth. “You realise, don’t you,” he said slowly, “that without me to help you, you’ll be sunk? You haven’t got enough money. You’ll be caught inside forty-eight hours. You do realise that?”
“I’m not going to wait to be caught.”
He still stared at the tablecloth.
“Nothing will induce you to change your mind?”
“Nothing,” I said decidedly.
But I was wrong.
The proprietor was out of the room, but in the corner of the bar a radio had been quietly churning out an Argentine tango. Suddenly the music stopped. There was a faint hiss from the loudspeaker. Then the announcer started speaking:
“ We interrupt this programme at the request of the Ministry of the Interior to request that all persons keep watch for a foreigner who has escaped from the jurisdiction of the Milan police. He is wanted in connection with grave charges of importance to every loyal Italian. A reward of ten thousand lire, ten thousand lire, will be paid to anyone giving information as to his movements. He is believed to be in the vicinity of Treviglio. He may attempt to pass himself off as an Englishman named Nicholas Marlow. Here is a description of the man…”
Zaleshoff walked over to the instrument and twisted the dial to another station. He returned to the table but did not sit down.
“That’s not a bad price, Marlow, not at all a bad price! They’re doing you proud.”
I did not answer.
He sighed. “Well, I suppose you’ll be wanting the local police post. I wish you joy of it.”
Except for the radio, there was silence in the room. I was conscious that he had walked across the room and was examining the Capri poster.
“If you’re going to telephone your sister before we leave,” I said slowly, “you’d better do it now, hadn’t you?”
I was staring at my empty plate. When I felt his hand on my shoulder, I jumped.
“Nice work, pal!”
I shrugged. “I have no choice.”
“No,” he said softly, “you have no choice.”
14
Zaleshoff was not gone long.
“There’ll be five thousand lire for us at Udine when we get there,” he said when he got back.
“But what about your sister?”
“She’s got some things to clear up, then she’s leaving for Belgrade to keep a line on Vagas. She’ll meet us there.”
“You’ve got everything planned beautifully, haven’t you?” I said, not without bitterness.
“Naturally. It’s better that way.”