Cause for Alarm (10 page)

It was a cold night, but as it was fine, and as I needed the exercise, I took the slightly longer route through the Public Gardens.

A faint ground mist was rising and the electric lights glowed yellowly among the trees. Couples sat huddled on the benches or stood in the shadows or walked sedately arm-in-arm along the stone paths. But towards the centre of the gardens, where the lakes made the mist thick and dank, there were fewer persons about. I turned into a tree-shadowed path that ran parallel to one of the main avenues. It was then that I noticed the man behind me.

I had been thinking that, so far, I had been able to do nothing about moving from the Parigi, that every day I stayed there was a waste of money, and that, at the earliest possible moment, I must make a real effort to find a
pensione
. Something must be done, too, about my passport. Was it, I wondered vaguely, any use asking Fitch or Pelcher to try to press at the Foreign Office in London for action. The next moment, I tripped over one of my shoe laces.

I bent down near the railings to retie the lace. As I did so I saw out of the corner of my eye a slight movement near the railings about twenty yards back.

If I had not moved close to the railings with the idea of
leaning against them while I tied the shoe, I should not have seen him. It was very dark beneath the trees. But the railings were in a direct line with a lantern over a gateway about a hundred yards along and, from where I stood, I could see, in faint silhouette, his head and shoulders.

I took no notice at first and finished tying up my lace. Then I glanced back again. The man had not moved. Mentally I shrugged. I walked on. A second or two later I heard a slight
click
behind me. I recognised the sound. A few yards back I had trodden on a loose drain cover. The man behind me had done the same thing. And then I stopped again. I don’t quite know why I did so. It may have been the half-formed suspicion in my mind that the man behind me might be some sort of footpad. There had been something odd about the way he had remained motionless while I had re-tied my shoe. I went to the railings again and pretended to adjust the knot. I could no longer see him, but there was not a sound of footsteps, only the distant hum of traffic along the Corso Venezia. He must, I knew, still be there. I walked on quickly and cut across by the shortest possible route out of the gardens.

There was light now and I could see him, a short, stocky, overcoated figure with a high-crowned soft hat. He had dropped back a little, and was sauntering along with his hands in his pockets and his collar turned up. There was, I thought, something familiar about that hat. But I did not look back again. There was no doubt about it. I was being followed. Obviously, the motive could not be robbery. The opportunity for that had passed. The man might be a pimp who had marked me down as foreign, and therefore a sound business prospect; but it was unlikely. Pimps did not have the sort of staying power this man seemed to possess. A pimp would have tackled me before.

I turned off the main road and threaded my way quickly through a series of back streets to the Via Alessandro Manzoni.
Then I looked back again. He was still there, a shadowy figure keeping close to the shadow of the wall.

I decided on action. I walked on rapidly until I came to a fairly quiet side street. On the corner I hesitated as though I were uncertain as to my whereabouts, then turned down the side street. A few yards along it I stopped and moved into the darkened entrance to a shop. A second or two later I heard the footsteps of the man behind me approaching. He was almost level with the shop when I stepped out and stood in the middle of the pavement. Facing me and looking as though he would have given anything to be able to turn tail and run, was Bellinetti.

He made a gallant effort to carry off the situation.

“I thought I recognised you, Signore, but I could not be sure. I was alone. I thought that we might drink a cognac together.”

“With pleasure.” We began to walk back to the main road. “Do you often walk in the Gardens at night, Bellinetti?”

“On fine evenings, yes. You walk very fast, Signore.”

There was a note almost of insolence in his voice. He had clearly recovered his composure. I took up the challenge.

“Then, Bellinetti, I advise you not to try to keep up with me. Who knows what may happen to a man in your state of health.”

“My state of health, Signore?”

“You might be seriously injured at any moment,” I said blandly.

He frowned. “I am always very careful, Signor.”

“I am glad to hear it.” We were passing a
caffè
. “Shall we have our drink here?”

Ten minutes later I resumed my walk back to the hotel. It would, I decided, be a distinct relief to be rid of signor Bellinetti. It was bad enough to have an inefficient assistant. An inefficient assistant who supplemented his office work by
spying upon one’s movements outside the office was intolerable.

There were two letters waiting for me when I got back to the hotel.

One was from my bank in London and concerned facilities for my drawing on their Milan agents. It was unimportant except for one thing. It was from England, and it had not been steamed open. Claire’s postscript had evidently been taken to heart by the unknown censor.

The other letter had been posted in Milan that afternoon. The envelope contained a small slip of paper with a single sentence typed on it:

E
THICALLY
S
PEAKING
, Y
OU
O
WE
M
E A
C
AKE OF
S
OAP
!

—that was all. There was no signature.

A
T HALF-PAST
eight the following evening, I presented myself at the Opera House.

Madame Vagas’ greeting was, I thought, a trifle cold.

She was a thin, imposing woman with greying black hair, small haggard eyes and an air of fighting off an almost overpowering lassitude. There was a hint of strain at the corners of her mouth, and the movements of her hands were sudden and awkward, as though she were consciously directing their activities.

It was in the ante-room of his box that the General introduced me to her. “My wife, Mr. Marlow,” he said. I had bowed and now we stood looking at one another while a waiter spread caviar and opened a bottle of Asti Spumante.

She examined me for a moment or two. Then: “Are you
sympathetic to the ballet, signor Marlow?”

She spoke a thick, guttural Italian. The words seemed to be forced from her lips. I was irresistibly reminded of the involuntary grunt of a person hit in the solar plexus.

The General replied for me.

“Signor Marlow is a devotee, Elsa, my dear. Otherwise I should not have asked him to join us here.” His tone was smooth enough, but I thought he smiled at her a little malignantly. In the subdued yellow light of the ante-room, his make-up was less obtrusive than when I had first seen him; but the points of his dress collar, where they touched the neck, were already smeared with grease and sun-tan powder. He transferred the smile to me. “How are you finding Milan, signor Marlow?”

“I can’t say that I’ve seen anything of it, General. I’ve been away in Genoa for the last few days. I only returned yesterday.”

“So? A glass of champagne?”

“Thank you.”

“You must have found Genoa very dull.” He turned to his wife. “Elsa, my dear, you remember that we found Genoa unspeakable?”

She took her glass of Asti. “That is the place with the large cemetery, isn’t it, signor Marlow?” Her eyes surveyed me. I had a feeling that my tie must be crooked. It was with difficulty that I prevented myself from fingering it.

“I was told so. The Genoese seem very proud of their cemetery.”

Vagas laughed politely. “I don’t suppose signor Marlow had much time for cemeteries. Let me see,” he added, “poor Ferning used to mention the Grigori-Sforza works at Genoa. I suppose, by any chance, you …?”

“Yes, it was the Grigori-Sforza works that I visited.”

He turned suddenly and spoke to Madame Vagas in a language that sounded like German. “I must apologise,” he
went on to me; “I was just explaining to my wife that you are Mr. Ferning’s successor.” He put his glass down. “I think the overture is nearly finished. Shall we go in?”

The first ballet was Lac des Cygnes. From where I sat Vagas’ head was sharply outlined against the glare of the stage. Almost against my will my eyes kept wandering from the tremulous flutterings of the
corps de ballet
to watch his face. With the rise of the curtain his expression had changed. His lips had parted slightly, and he was breathing slowly and deeply. Every now and again he would swallow and clear his throat. It was like watching a man asleep. There was about him the same quality of unawareness, of preoccupation with dreams. Beyond him, in the shadows, I could see Madame Vagas, her face a smudge of grey against the curtains of the box, her body motionless. I looked down into the house upon the rows of white, still faces. It was as if they belonged to the dead, and only the figures on the stage were alive. A green light flickered in the wings and the Prince staggered back miming dread and horror, his body taut, his ridiculous crossbow jerking with the staccato movements of his arms. I saw the General raise a handkerchief and dab his lips. Madame Vagas yawned. The faces below did not move. The ballet approached its climax. At last the curtain fell. There was a roar of applause. The curtain rose, fell, rose again. More bows. Bouquets were carried on to the stage. The Prince kissed his hands to the Swan. The conductor took a bow. The curtain fell. The applause died away into a hum of conversation as the house lights went up.

The General sighed and put his monocle back in his eye.

“There is only one Fokine,” he said. “Did it please you, Mr. Marlow?”

“Very much.”

“The best is yet to come. Shall we smoke. Are you coming, Elsa, my dear?”

She shook her head slowly. “I think that the Contessa Perugia is on her way here.”

He frowned. “Please make my excuses to the lady. I think we might walk round to the cigar stall, Mr. Marlow.”

We made our way to the top of the main staircase. The place was packed. I could hear German, French and Spanish being spoken in my immediate vicinity. I could see a Hindu, a Chinese, two Japanese and a grey-faced man wearing a tarboosh.

“You see, Mr. Marlow,” murmured the General in my ear, “at La Scala, ballet recognises no frontiers.” He inclined his head gracefully but repressively to a man with a pointed white beard who seemed about to accost us, and led the way to the cigar stall.

“That man,” he explained, “is a member of a drug syndicate. Very charming, but his confidences are apt to be embarrassing. A match, Mr. Marlow?”

But I was no longer paying any attention to him. Weaving their way towards us through the crowd were a man and a woman. I gaped at them. The woman was young, almost a girl, and she was beautiful. It was a curious, nearly masculine beauty. The cheek-bones were high and drew the flesh smoothly away from the red lips in a way which gave her an oddly impassive expression. Her hair gleamed a very dark brown. Her hands were exquisite. Yet it was not so much she who had attracted my attention as the fact that beside her, his hand on her elbow and looking in his evening clothes more like a prize-fighter than ever, was Zaleshoff.

He saw me at the same moment that I saw him. Our eyes met. I prepared for a greeting. But, without a flicker of recognition in his eyes, he looked straight through me. Another second and he was past. I recovered myself quickly.

“I beg your pardon, General.”

He smiled and struck another match.

“Don’t apologise, Mr. Marlow. She is, I agree, quite lovely here.”

“Here?”

“A common Slav type, Mr. Marlow. In Belgrade you could take your choice. The man with her is her brother. Haven’t you seen them before?”

“No.”

He attended to his cigar. “The man is called Zaleshoff, Andreas Prokovitch Zaleshoff. Her name is Tamara Prokovna. Russian, of course; but they were both, I believe, brought up in the United States. I’m afraid,” he added gravely, “that I cannot recommend you to pursue your interest in the lady. The man is an agent of the Soviet Government, and it is highly probable that his sister is also.”

I managed a light laugh.

“That sounds very sensational, General. But I assure you that I hadn’t the least intention of pursuing my interest. I have a fiancée in England.” The words sounded to me appallingly pompous and unreal, but he nodded as if satisfied.

“A foreigner in Italy,” he said, “does well to be discreet. Excuse me.”

To my relief, he turned aside to speak to some people who were passing. I had time to collect myself. Either Vagas was making a clumsy effort to impress me or I was moving in rather deeper waters than I had thought. What was it Zaleshoff had said? “Fortunately, I’ve got other contacts.” But it was ridiculous. In any case, I was wishing very earnestly that I had not come. I passed in quick review the possible excuses I might make for leaving at the next interval. I might plead illness, or a forgotten business engagement. I might …

Vagas touched me on the arm.

“I want you to meet the signora Bernabò, Mr. Marlow.” He turned to the fat, shrill-voiced woman by his side. “
Le voglio presentare il signor Marlow, Signora
.”

“
Fortunatissimo, Signora
.”

“
Fortunatissimo, Signore
.”

“
E Commendatore Bernabò
.” He indicated a moustachioed gentleman wearing the insignia of the
Ordine della Corona d’Italia
.

“
Fortunatissimo, Commendatore
”

There was a great deal of hand shaking. The ballet was discussed. Signora Bernabò breathed heavily in the background.

“I only come here,” she announced after a while, “to see the gowns.”

The Commendatore laughed heartily and twirled his moustaches. To my surprise, Vagas laughed too. Later, however, as we were returning to the box, I was given an explanation for this.