Eric Ambler - Cause for Alarm

His lip curled again. “A little Fascist discipline would do you good, signor Marlow,” he said slowly. “Let me advise you once more to be discreet.” He turned his back on me and sat down.

I went, seething. On the way to the Via San Giulio I called at the British Consulate. I was interviewed by a very polite young man in a Savile Row suit. He listened to my tale of woe in silence. Then:

“Well, of course, Mr. Marlow, it is very unusual of them to behave like that, and I’ve never heard of them retaining a British passport like that. But you were probably just unlucky. And they are inclined to be a little touchy at the moment. I’ll have a word with the Consul about it. But I shouldn’t worry. If you don’t get your passport back, let us know. By the way, what did you say your business was?”

“My company is supplying machinery to the Government.”

“What sort of machinery, Mr. Marlow?”

“For making munitions.”

“Oh quite. Well, I expect that that might have something to do with it. Let me see, Mr. Ferning was your predecessor, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know him?”

“No. I have only just left England.”

“Ah, just so. Charming fellow, of course. Well, good morning, Mr. Marlow. Let us know if you have any trouble.”

I went on my way. That was the third time in twenty-four hours that I had been asked whether or not I had known Ferning. Vagas, the signor Capitano, and now the Consulate. It was, I supposed, only to be expected. A man who dies in a street accident in a foreign city is not immediately forgotten by all his associates there.

Bellinetti greeted me cordially and informed me with pride that he had done most of the work for the day.

“The Signore,” he added, “need never trouble to attend the office until after luncheon. I, Bellinetti, will see that all goes well.” He smacked his lips and flashed a smile in the direction of Serafina, who looked up from the book she was reading to nod graciously.

I scowled at them and strode into my office. Bellinetti followed me.

“There is something wrong, Signore?”

Impatiently, I told him how I had spent the morning.

He pursed his lips. “That is bad. I will speak to my brother-in-law on the subject. He is most sympathetic, and he has a friend who knows an important personage in the Amministrazione. There is, however,” he went on gaily, “no need for you to worry. The business is all in good order. Everything arranges itself admirably.”

It took me exactly four hours to find out just how admirably everything in the Milan office of the Spartacus Machine Tool Company did, in fact, arrange itself. The knowledge was profoundly depressing. Everything had arranged itself into the most disgusting muddle.

Hidden away in drawers and cupboards I found stacks of correspondence.

“Our files,” explained Bellinetti proudly.

I went through one pile with him. Roughly one half of it consisted of unanswered requests for information of various kinds, the other of accounting records that should have been sent to Wolverhampton over six months previously.

The latter I flourished in his face. “You might not have known how to deal with the letters,” I snapped, “but at least you should have known that these go to England.”

He eyed me apprehensively and flashed an uneasy smile.

“Signor Ferning said to keep them here, Signore.”

It was a palpable lie; but I said “Oh,” and went on to the next cupboard. This was a mistake, for, imagining, evidently, that he had found a formula that would silence my criticisms, he proceeded to invoke the name of my predecessor as every fresh defection came to light. He, Bellinetti, had known that it was wrong but-here a shrug-signor Ferning had said… It had not been for him to dispute with signor Ferning. Signor Ferning had had the confidence of those at Volver’ampton. He, Bellinetti, had done his best, but his services had not been recognised. I soon gave it up, and went back to my room to sit down behind the mountains of “files” now reposing on my desk. Bellinetti, a Daniel come to judgment, followed me.

For five minutes I talked without stopping. He smiled steadily through it all. By the time I had finished, however, the smile had changed considerably in quality. I saw, to my satisfaction, a new Bellinetti shining through it-a Bellinetti who would gladly have knifed me.

He shrugged, at last, disdainfully. “These things,” he said, “are not my responsibility, but that of signor Ferning.”

“Signor Ferning has been dead over two months.”

“Without assistance I can do nothing. Umberto is a cretin.”

I let this pass. I had, during the afternoon, formed my own opinion of Umberto.

“Who,” I pursued, “engaged the Signorina?”

I had already ascertained that she had been engaged since Ferning’s death, and he knew that I knew.

“I did, Signore. It was essential that I had some assistance. The Signorina has been a great help while I was here alone bearing the responsibilities for your English company.”

“The Signorina cannot even type.”

“She is my secretary, Signore.”

“You have no secretary, Bellinetti. The Signorina must go. You can tell her yourself or I will do so. Now be good enough to ask Umberto to come in. You need not stay any longer to-day. I shall expect to see you at nine o’clock to-morrow morning to go through these files of yours.”

“The office does not open until ten o’clock, Signore.”

“From now on, it opens at nine.”

The smile had deteriorated into a show of teeth. He retired, slamming the door after him. A moment or two later a terrified Umberto appeared.

“You wished to see me, Signore?”

“Yes, Umberto. How much do you earn a week?”

“Eighty lire, Signore.”

“Beginning this week you will receive a hundred lire a week.”

For a moment he goggled at me. Then, to my horror, he burst into tears. After a bit he began to stammer his thanks. He lived with his grandfather who was bed-ridden. His brother was doing his military service. His mother had died when he was born. His father had been killed by the Squadristi in nineteen-twenty-three. I was, he sobbed, his benefactor.

I got rid of him as soon as I could, and began the assault on Ferning’s desk.

The drawers were stuffed with blue-prints, specifications, German machine-tool catalogues and memoranda from Pelcher and Fitch. But there was a certain amount of order in the way in which it had been put away. I guessed that the desk had not been touched since Ferning’s death. The tone of the Wolverhampton correspondence was cordial and businesslike. I found also a set of false teeth in a thick cardboard box, two dirty handkerchiefs, a piece of soap, a razor, a slide-rule, an empty Strega bottle and a small loose-leaf note-book. I put these objects aside and began to sort the papers.

I became so immersed in the task that it was eight o’clock when I glanced at my wrist-watch and decided to finish for the day. I had told Bellinetti that he was to be in the office at nine. I should have to see that I was on time myself. Besides, except for some fruit that I had sent Umberto for during the afternoon, I had had nothing to eat since breakfast. It was time that I had dinner.

I rose and got my coat. As I was putting it on it brushed against the desk and knocked the note-book on to the floor. I picked the note-book up. It had fallen open and one of the leaves had come adrift. Almost automatically I patted it back into place and refastened the loose-leaf catch. Then I stopped and looked at it again. The page was covered with minute pencil notes. But it was not the notes that had made me look twice. Roughly printed in pencil at the head of the page was the word “VAGAS.”