Cause for Alarm v-2 Read online

  I do not remember when they stopped. I have a faint recollection of hearing the car start, but the blood was thumping in my head and it was as though my senses were blanketed with cotton-wool. It seemed an age that I lay there, my knees still drawn up, my hands still over my face. Then, gradually, very gradually, I began to get my breath back and with it came the pain, sickening waves of it that made me want to cry out.

  At last I got slowly to my feet and stood for a time motionless, leaning against the shutter. My flesh felt liquid. I was conscious only of my bones and my joints, of the skeleton which was my body’s structure. I could feel every inch of it. I knew that I could not stand there indefinitely; and yet I had not the courage to move. In the distance I heard the sound of a train chuffing slowly out of the station. Then the chuffing ceased and there was the faint clink-clink of trucks being shunted.

  For some reason, the sound seemed to rouse me. I must do something. The silent, deserted street was suddenly terrifying. I decided to get back to my office. There I could rest for a bit and it was near.

  My legs had begun to tremble violently and it was all I could do to keep my feet, but I began to make my way back. When I reached the entrance to the office building I was staggering, but I managed to get my key out and unlock the door before I finally fell down. I lay there for a minute or two trying to keep my senses. After a bit, however, I got a hold on the rail and began to drag myself up the stairs.

  By the time I had got to the second floor I was nearly done. My head was aching violently and I wanted badly to be sick. I made an effort and began to climb again. Then I saw the light under Zaleshoff’s door and remembered that Zaleshoff had some brandy.

  I crawled up the last few stairs and got to the door. I steadied myself against the door-post. I could hear Zaleshoff talking to somebody. I knocked once. Then, as my head began to swim, I closed my eyes. It seemed hours before I opened them again, but they couldn’t have been shut for more than a few seconds for, when I did open them, there was Zaleshoff standing holding the door open and staring at me blankly.

  “What, for Pete’s sake, is the matter?”

  “If you don’t mind,” I said carefully, “I should like a drink of your brandy.” But almost before I had finished the sentence I felt my knees sagging. The next moment I sprawled forward at his feet.

  The girl, Tamara, was there with him. Between them they got me to a chair. The cotton-wool was in my ears again but I could hear their voices.

  “Is he drunk?” This from the girl.

  “No-beaten up. Go and get the cognac.”

  She got the brandy. I felt it burning its way down my throat and into my stomach. With my eyes still closed, I grinned at him. “Sorry to be such a nuisance.”

  “Shut your trap and drink some more of this. You can talk in a minute.” I felt him examining my legs. “Tamara, go and get some hot water from the portinaia. Then get a taxi and get some tincture of arnica from a chemist.”

  She went. I drank some more brandy and my head began to clear. I opened my eyes. Zaleshoff was frowning at me.

  “How many were there of them?”

  “Four.”

  “Could you recognise them?”

  “No.” I told him what had happened.

  He looked puzzled. “I don’t understand it.” Suddenly he leaned forward, took a piece of paper from the side pocket of my overcoat and held it up to me.

  “Is this yours? It was sticking out of your pocket.”

  “What is it?”

  He opened it. It was a sheet about ten inches by eight inches. He glanced at it, then held it up for me to see. Scrawled across it in Italian was a single sentence:

  NEXT TIME YOU WILL BE HURT

  I stared at it, and as I stared I could feel my brain getting colder and colder and a slow sick rage rising in my chest.

  “Have you seen Vagas to-day?” demanded Zaleshoff.

  “He was waiting to see me at my hotel when I got back last night.”

  “Were you followed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Vagas must have been seen leaving. They’re thinking…” He broke off. “Why did he come?”

  “To increase his offer.”

  He struck the palm of his hand with his fist. “They must be pressing him from Berlin. If only…”

  “If only what?”

  “Never mind. You’ve had enough for one night. Remember what I told you about the Ovra?”

  “Yes, I remember.” But I wasn’t listening to what he was saying. I was busy with my own thoughts. I was making a decision.

  The girl came in with the hot water. Between them they undressed me and he began to bathe the abrasions on my legs and arms. The process was painful. When it was finished he stuck a cigarette between my thickening lips and lighted it for me.

  “Are you going to the police about this?”

  “It would be rather a waste of time, wouldn’t it?”

  “What about your Consul?”

  “He can’t do more than badger the authorities, and as I’ve no description of the men to give, I can’t reasonably expect him to do anything.”

  “I guess not.” Behind the smoke of his own cigarette he surveyed me speculatively. “What are you going to do?”

  My lips tightened. “I’ll show you. Give me the telephone, will you?”

  He glanced at me quickly but said nothing. He put the telephone at my elbow.

  “Now give me Vagas’ number.”

  “Nord 45–65.” He might have been telling me the time. I dialled the number. I had just got through to Vagas when Tamara returned.

  “This is Marlow here, General… yes, very well. I saw the Commendatore this morning… charming. What I telephoned you about was to tell you that I have reconsidered the suggestion you made to me the other night… yes… yes, I think so. Naturally these things have to be carefully considered… quite. Now I suggest that this business would be handled more discreetly through the poste restante…”

  When at last I put the telephone down they were both staring at me as though I had gone mad; as, indeed, I had.

  “You’d better understand here and now, Zaleshoff,” I said grimly, “that I’m not taking any money from you over this business. I’m doing it to satisfy my own private sense of the fitness of things. And now, if you’ve quite finished staring, I’d like someone to get busy with that tincture of arnica. Then, if your sister doesn’t mind, I’d like something to eat.”

  “Yes, surely!” For the second time, I saw Zaleshoff disconcerted. Then, as he began to dab the arnica on my legs, he chuckled.

  “Tamara.”

  “Yes, Andreas.”

  “Wasn’t Spartacus the slave who rebelled?”

  10

  CORRISPONDENZA

  From “N. Marinetti” to “J. L. Venezetti,” Poste Restante, Wagon-Lits-Cook, Milano.

  Milano,

  April 9.

  Dear Sir,

  Further to our telephone conversation of yesterday, I enclose details of the past three months’ transactions and trust that this meets with your approval.

  Yours faithfully,

  N. Marinetti.

  From “J. L. Venezetti” to “N. Marinetti,” Poste Restante, American Express, Milano.

  Milano,

  April II.

  Dear Sir,

  Thank you for your letter and enclosure. I had expected only the details for the current month. The remaining material is, however, of value. I therefore enclose five thousand-lire notes instead of three as arranged in consideration of the extra material supplied. I also enclose the specifications and form of tender handed to me by Commendatore B. and trust that this business will go well. I look forward to your further communications.

  Yours faithfully,

  J. L. Venezetti.

  From “N. Marinetti” to “J. L. Venezetti,” Poste Restante, Wagon-Lits-Cook, Milano.

  Milano,

  April 12.

  Dear Sir,

  Your letter and
enclosures safely received. I shall be writing to you again in three weeks’ time. With thanks.

  Yours faithfully,

  N. Marinetti.

  From myself to Claire.

  Hotel Parigi,

  April 11.

  Darling,

  I’m afraid that I’m turning out a very bad correspondent, after all. It’s at least a week since I wrote to you, and to make it worse I had your letter this morning. It made me feel very guilty. But the fact is, my sweet, that I had a bit of an accident a day or so ago. Nothing serious. A few bruises only. But I had to spend a day in bed; and with the way things are at the office that has meant that I’ve had the devil’s own job catching up with the work that has accumulated. I’ve also had to waste to-day going to Cremona to see some people about a complaint-an additional complication. All of which is by way of being not only an apologia, but also a delicate preamble to what I really have to say.

  Do you remember, darling, that when we discussed my taking this job originally, we decided that it should be a sort of stop-gap, something to tide over an awkward period? It was, we told each other, only for a little while, a few months at most, just until things got better in England.

  Although it’s only a few weeks back that we said it all, it seems like years ago to me; and, just as if it were, indeed, years ago, I can look at the whole thing without too much prejudice. I can’t help wondering, my sweet, just how much we thought we were deceiving ourselves. Although neither of us said as much, I fancy that we were both afraid of facing the simple truth that, barring miracles, there was not a ghost of a chance of my being able to come home in anything like the near future-without going back to the point at which I started when Barnton Heath closed down on me.

  So what? Simply this, darling. I have decided to come and take my chance again. I fancy that it was a little unwise of me to take on this job at all; but that is beside the point. You will probably be thinking that this decision is merely the result of a natural home-sickness and love-sickness plus the usual misery of a brand-new job. I wish it were; but I’m afraid it isn’t. I don’t think I’m a particularly chicken-hearted sort of person and I’ve had enough experience to know that the depression that is liable to develop over a new job in strange surroundings and away from old friends is transitory. But this, as I say, is different. It may be that I’m not cut out to be a business man, that I should have stayed in works where I belong; but even if that is true (and I think it is) it doesn’t account for everything. If I were the smartest business man in Europe, I fancy that I should still be making the same decision.

  You must be wondering what on earth all this rambling is about, why, after the optimistic note of my second letter (I’d just sacked Serafina and was feeling very competent), I’ve changed my tune so suddenly. I’ll try to be a little more explicit, darling, but you’ll have to take my word for a lot. The truth is that there are things about this job which I didn’t know of when I took it, things that Pelcher and Fitch didn’t and still don’t know, things that, in the few days that I have been here, have landed me in about as absurd a position as you could imagine. I don’t think that I have acted with any less gumption or with any more spirit than any other man in my place would have acted. Nevertheless, the situation is intolerable. I have made my decision in cold blood, and after weighing everything very carefully, I have no conscience about Spartacus. I am in the process of securing a contract for them which will more than repay them for any inconvenience I may cause them.

  I have decided to send in my resignation at the end of next month. Why wait? Well, there are some things I have to attend to here which I anticipate will take me some few weeks to dispose of. To be as frank as I dare, my love, I have committed myself to doing something rather foolish, something that, in the ordinary way, I should not have dreamed of doing; but something that in this madhouse we call Europe seems to contain for me at the moment the elements of a crude poetic justice. I must finish what I have begun. Curiously enough, I think your father would sympathise. Do you remember what he was saying that night, so long ago, when we ate at a Chinese restaurant, saw a film afterwards, and then went home? He was waiting for us with a whisky decanter and all the discretion in the world.

  I feel sure that all this mystery will irritate you exceedingly. Believe me, I don’t want to be mysterious. If you were here, I should dearly love to tell you all about it. To have to write this incoherent balderdash pleases me not at all. But I knew that you would be making arrangements to spend your holiday here and thought I had better break the news now. You don’t know, dear, how much I am looking forward to being with you again. All my love, sweet, and don’t be too cross with me.

  Nicky.

  I’m glad to hear that the work is going so well. You professional people don’t know how well off you are. Or do you?

  From myself to Alfred Pelcher, Esq.

  Via San Giulio, 14, Milano,

  April 16.

  Dear Mr. Pelcher,

  Thank you very much indeed for your letter on the subject of Bellinetti. I quite understand the circumstances and have endeavoured to reorganise the work of the office to suit them.

  I have delayed replying to your letter until now as I have been hoping to have something of special interest to report to you. Events have now made that possible, and I am very pleased to be able to tell you that I have secured, in direct competition with our German rivals, an order from the Ordnance Department here for thirty-eight S2 machines of the standard type with minor modifications.

  The price at which the order has been secured is 843,000 lire, and although two per cent. of that amount will be offset by an allocation from the special appropriation, the price per machine will still, I think you will find, be higher than any we have been able to obtain previously. Officially, this fact will be accounted for by the modifications. Actually, these modifications are purely nominal in character. Delivery is required within six months.

  I am, however, sending full details through to Mr. Fitch in the ordinary way. I thought I would take this opportunity of giving you the news.

  Yours sincerely,

  Nicholas Marlow.

  From Claire to myself.

  London,

  April 14.

  Nicky darling,

  I read your letter in the bus this morning and I’m dashing off this reply in the hospital’s time, so it’s going to be shorter than I should like it to be.

  Let me say at once, my dear, that never did it occur to me that this Spartacus job was anything more than a postponement of the evil day. But I thought, and still do think, that you were wise to take it. I think that the Barnton Heath mess was a bigger shock to you than you realised yourself. You both under- and over-estimated yourself and started off on the wrong foot to retrieve the situation. I fancy that I may have had something to do with that. I was too anxious to keep your spirits up. You should have begun by worrying yourself sick and ended by not caring a damn. In fact, you began by worrying a little and ended by worrying far too much. Father uttered a mild truth on the subject. “ Your young man,” he said. That’s the way he always refers to you. “ Your young man ought to get a Government job. He’s a technician pure and simple and out of his element in an acquisitive society.” It makes you sound a little flimsy, my pet, but it’s not so wide of the mark. Incidentally, it’s one of the reasons why I approve of you.

  But that has very little to do with your letter. To be honest with you, darling, I’m a little worried. Not, I hasten to say, by your decision about Spartacus. I have enormous faith in your judgment and good sense. If you feel that you would be better out of Spartacus, then get out of it with all speed. But as for the rest of it; I’m not going to pretend that I even begin to understand what you’re driving at. Mysterious is a mild word for it. I can quite easily remember what father talked about when we arrived home after we had agreed to make honest folk of one another. Easily, because your replies to the poor dear were so stupid that he asked me at breakfast next mor
ning whether we proposed to get married before or after you had been psychoanalysed. I can’t, I’m afraid, see what possible connection there could be between the Rome-Berlin axis and machine tools, but I’m quite prepared to make allowances for a little mystery. I seem to remember doing a little research for you into the surface tension of gum. You probably have that in mind.

  No! what worries me, Nicky, is what you decided to omit from your letter. With you, my love, I never attempt to read between the lines. But I do sometimes read under the lines. You have a habit of crossing out words you don’t like and writing over them the words you do like. Your crossing out is very inefficient on the whole and usually, by holding the paper up to the light, I can read the rejected words. So that when I read you have committed yourself to doing something “ foolish ” and find that the word has been put in to replace a scratched out “ dangerous,” you can understand how I feel.

  It is true that “ dangerous ” might have been the wrong word, but it couldn’t have been so hopelessly wide of the mark or you wouldn’t have put it down at all. Besides, taken in conjunction with the rest of your letter (what, by the way, was that “ bit of an accident ” you were so airy about?) it seems to me that it may very well have been the right word, but that you were anxious not to alarm me.

  I don’t want to be silly and hysterical about it, but whatever it is you’re doing, Nicky, do take care. Not that I’m such a fool as to think you won’t take care. It seems to me that feminine exhortations of that sort must always be rather irritating. But do take care. And, since you have decided to leave, come back to me as quickly as possible. Must you wait for so long before resigning? I suppose you’ll have to give a month’s notice, and that means that you won’t be home until the end of June. Quite apart from the fact that it’s very lonely here without you, I am consumed with curiosity. Write to me again very soon.